Into the Forbidden Zone: A Trip Through Hell and High Water in Post-Earthquake Japan
William T. Vollmann








Just weeks after multiple disasters struck Japan, National Book Award winner William T. Vollmann ventures into the nuclear hot zone, outfitted only with rubber kitchen gloves, a cloth facemask, and a capricious radiation detector. In this Byliner Original from the new digital publisher Byliner, Vollmann emerges with a haunting report on daily life in a now-ravaged Japan — a country he has known and loved for many years. And in the cities and towns hit hardest by the earthquake, tsunami, and radioactive contamination, Vollmann finds troubling omens of a future heading toward us all.






William T. Vollmann




Into the Forbidden Zone: A Trip Through Hell and High Water in Post-Earthquake Japan





I: PICARESQUE WANDERINGS OF A DOSIMETER







THE GOLDEN RULE OF JOURNALISM — keep one’s dental appointments — I had now neglected for a couple of years, but in obedience to the current practicalities of Japan I made haste to cultivate my hygienist, who pressed the X-ray camera’s snout against patients’ cheekbones and therefore wore a dosimeter badge clipped to her pinkish smock. Thanks to her, I grew acquainted with the phone number of Carol (on subsequent dialings I got Ginger), who connected me with a salesman named Bob, who allowed that he did still have one Geiger counter in stock — or, more precisely, a post — Geiger-Müller sort of gadget which, said Bob (who had not actually inspected it but seemed to be interpolating from some data screen), resembled an electronic calculator. Current and cumulative exposure, X-ray and gamma, a programmable exposure alarm — oh, delicious! Never mind its inability to detect alpha or beta particles; wouldn’t those be approximately innocuous so long as I refrained from ingesting them? (Within the body, remarked my radiation incident guide, “alpha and beta emitters are the most hazardous” since they “can transfer ionizing radiation to surrounding tissue, damaging DNA or other cellular material.”)




Five hundred dollars plus shipping, credit card only; thus spake Bob, who must have known he was sitting pretty, for the other companies I had contacted accepted only back orders, two weeks having already lapsed since the reactor accident. In Japan, so I heard, one couldn’t buy dosimeters at all. I wondered aloud whether Bob’s product came with a probe to stick into my sashimi, because that, I proposed, might be fun. Eliding the issue of fun, Bob (who informed me that he had had a long, hard week) assured me that I could hold the machine six inches away from, say, a glass of drinking water, after which I would really know something. Potable water being unavailable in much of the disaster area, and Tokyo’s water supply having been spiced up with variable radioactivity, I considered myself canny to have pounced upon this capacity for pinpoint monitoring.

At this point in our transaction, any self-respecting used car buyer would have kicked a tire while nodding wisely; I accomplished the equivalent by asking which units of measurement the thing employed. Millisieverts and millirems, replied Bob. I confess that this answer left me feeling long in the tooth, for in my day it had all been roentgens. When I phoned my friend the retired radiologist, he came down solidly in my camp, announcing: “I’m too old to care about millisieverts.” Vaguely remembering from my university education that four hundred roentgens was a lethal dose, I dusted off my copy of Physical Chemistry (1966), wherein I learned that “the development of the nuclear reactor, which promises to be a very important power source, has led to many challenging chemical problems.”


 That’s nice. Actually, “a lethal whole-body single dose of radiation for man is about 500 roentgens”;


 now it was all coming back, except that I’d better learn how to convert to sieverts.

My lean old Swedish neighbor offered to lend me his Geiger counter, a souvenir of business dealings in the Jewish Autonomous Oblast of the Soviet Union, but I could not guarantee my ability to return it. At my request, he took a reading right there in my parking lot, a good ten days after the Japanese radioactive plume had officially reached our city. The dial slept at zero. Well, hadn’t the newspaper promised us that the levels were practically undetectable? Sighing, my neighbor wondered whether his toy was still calibrated. He slipped it back into the worn leather case, and because I could see that he loved it very much, I knew I had done right to leave it in his keeping.

My new dosimeter (whose brand and model number I decline to insert here unless the manufacturer pays me) did indeed resemble a calculator. It was a fat, blue, boring little plastic thing with a pocket clip. After an hour or so I figured out how to turn it on. And what do you know? The number in the narrow window was zero. How could I ascertain whether it even functioned? To be sure, a hand-signed certificate of calibration came enclosed; and the background radiation in Sacramento ought to be negligible even now, so the fact that the window displayed zero and only zero was no cause for suspicion; all the same, I preferred not to trust my life to a calibration certificate.

Hence another kindhearted neighbor, who had connections in the local fire department, carried into my living room a padded envelope hand-labeled DANGER — RADIATION. My twelve-year-old grimaced in horror; she preferred to stay in the kitchen. Out came a plastic box containing a radioactive point source of unknown magnitude, which my neighbor’s bare hand now conveyed from her side of the sofa to mine. My neighbor assured me that the source was weak, and likewise her surprise bonus: one of her Great Aunt Lou’s orange-glazed dinner plates, which had become a rarity as soon as our government sequestered that orange glaze for the Manhattan Project. I clinked my dosimeter against the point source and the plate, each for a good five seconds, and the display continued steady at zero. In due course I would realize that Bob had misrepresented the machine’s capabilities; all it could read, except in extreme cases, was incident radiation, which is like the ambient radiation all around you, like the air. I would have to take the safety of Tokyo’s drinking water on faith. I sat glumly beside my neighbor, wondering whether my toy had arrived broken, and imagining that my leg was receiving a radiation sunburn. Why wouldn’t she at least move that plate away?

I left my dosimeter at my bedside in measurement mode all night, and in the morning it was still at zero. But then the Radiation Gods saw fit to bestow upon me a sign. Since my best friend’s brain tumor had begun to grow again (or perhaps wasn’t growing at all, depending on which doctors said what), it came time for his gamma knife surgery. His wife and I accompanied him to the cyber-knife chamber while he got strapped down. Then we returned to the waiting room to worry about him. During that ten-minute interval, the dosimeter registered 0.1 millirems. Did that mean that there was stray radiation around here, or simply that the dosimeter reported in 0.1 millirem increments? Either way, life was looking up. I decided to forget millisieverts and dwell in millirems.

My radiation incident guide (a present from the neighbor with the orange plate) informed me that 0.05 millirems or less per hour falls within the bounds of normal background exposure, while even 0.1 millirems can be considered unexceptional; indeed, the average dose (in the United States, I assume) is 360 millirems per year — a figure I find shockingly high, since 365 days of 0.1 millirems would give only 36.5 millirems. Doubtless our author threw in a few chest X-rays, airplane rides, and slumber parties in stone castles full of radon gas. A reading above 0.1 millirems per hour, I learned, is worrisome.


 Worried I was not, since my readings in San Francisco and Sacramento were on the order of 0.1 millirems per day.

The radiation incident guide advised me that if I were a “responder” of the best official type I ought to limit my dose at any one occasion to 5 rems; hence that would be my ceiling for Japan. Five rems divided by ten days would be 500 millirems a day, or five thousand times what I was getting in San Francisco. According to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, certain mild symptoms may appear at 30 rems. Radiation sickness manifests itself at 70 to 100 rems. Above 350 rems, any recovery is likely to be followed by a relapse. Two hundred fifty to 500 rems is the lethal dose for 50 percent of humans within sixty days. (Do rems sound a trifle like roentgens? Well, “rem” is an abbreviation for “roentgen equivalent man.”) At 5,000 rems (or, if you like, 50 sieverts), all patients die within forty-eight hours.




In Japan the authorities danced fluently between millisieverts per hour for air and becquerels for drinking water. The former is a unit of biological damage; the latter has to do with atomic disintegrations per second. Nobody I met over there could keep them straight.

My friend Dave Golden, who has a finger in every pie, somehow managed to make an appointment for me with Dr. Jean Pouliot, vice-chair of the radiation oncology department at Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco. Dr. Pouilot was a pleasant man of middle age. With him came a quietly competent, pretty young physicist named Josephine Chen. Dr. Pouilot unlocked the door of a windowless room, picked up a meter the size of a small laptop, and approached a certain metal cabinet whose front bore a radiation warning. The meter did not respond. Nor did my dosimeter. Sighing, he unlocked the cabinet, pulled aside a nest of lead bricks and withdrew a cylindrical object. Still his meter showed nothing; evidently the battery had died. Josephine brought my dosimeter close to the object, and the alarm sounded. I felt pleased. In the quarter-hour we spent in that room, God regaled us with 0.6 heavenly millirems!

“Well, it’s a little high,” said Dr. Pouliot. “Maybe we should put it away.”

His meter being dead, I could not calibrate my dosimeter against it. And given my experience with my neighbor’s orange plate, I had reason to believe that my dosimeter might be insensitive to, or inaccurate in, low ranges. But at least it was doing something. My homework might not be well done, but I hoped to earn an A for diligent intentions.

Dr. Pouilot considered my five-rem ceiling dose a trifle dangerous. When I showed him the page in my incident guide where the EPA recommended it, that tolerant man said that after all, they ought to know what they were doing.

The next day I flew off to Japan, accruing 1.2 millirems (about an eighth of a chest X-ray) in eleven and a half hours.







II: A STORY ABOUT THINGS WE CAN SCARCELY BELIEVE, LET ALONE UNDERSTAND





~ ~ ~







Devastation in Ishinomaki. Photo by William T. Vollmann

ON MARCH 11, 2011, a 9.0-magnitude temblor struck the eastern coast of Japan’s main island. A tsunami followed. The day before I departed Tokyo for the disaster zone, the casualties had been totted up as follows: killed, 12,175; missing, 15,489; injured, 2,858.


 In the affected area there happened to be a pair of nuclear power plants owned by the Tokyo Electric Power Company, or, in English-language parlance, Tepco. The six-reactor Fukushima Number One Nuclear Plant emerged from the catastrophe with more cracks and leaks than its counterpart a few kilometers south. By the 26th, water in Plant Number One’s second reactor was emitting at least a sievert per hour of radiation.


At this rate, a person would receive that five-rem dose in about three minutes.

The situation seemed unpromising, all the more so since I was not the only ignoramus in Japan:

March 27:

Q. Where did this radioactive water come from?

A. Plant officials and government regulators say they don’t know.




April 3:

How much water has leaked and for how long was not known as of Saturday afternoon.




Before I had left for Japan, Peter Bradford, formerly a member of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and now serving on the board of trustees of the Union of Concerned Scientists, had said to me: “I’m getting increasingly concerned about the failure of the Japanese public to get accurate information. In the first week I thought the Japanese government was being cautious for good reason. In the third week, there are more and more symptoms that details are being held back. Just now there’s first of all that one extremely high radiation reading, which was declared to be a mistake, and secondly the discovery of iodine-134, which has a very short half-life and would only be present if there’s some recriticality, and they said that’s also a mistake. That’s two mistakes.”

“What would the worst case be?”

“If one of the cores was able to go critical to produce even a small-scale nuclear explosion.”

“How much of Japan would become uninhabitable?”

“It’s hard to say. It depends a lot on the wind. So far the Japanese have been lucky with the winds blowing west to east, out to sea.”




WHY THIS ESSAY IS SHORT ON STATISTICS


ALTHOUGH MY LETTER of press accreditation informed those very few Japanese who were interested that my duties involved “interviewing individuals and officials on behalf of our publication,” I did not see it as my duty to obtain figures on casualties, radiation levels, et cetera, which might well be lies and would certainly be superseded. (The stunning capacity of the Japanese official to say absolutely nothing is matched only by the absurd degree of trust that his public places in him; while the cynical suspicion of the American electorate finds its perfect mate in their officials’ complacent and sometimes even blustering dishonesty.)

Nor could I imagine that “experts” had any more to say about the profoundest questions raised by this continuing tragedy than those who suffered by it. Finally, I could see no benefit in seeking out the people in greatest emotional pain. As you read this account, you will see that my interviewees were, for materially devastated individuals, relatively “lucky.” Only a couple of families had lost members — yet. This selection was less the fruit of my deliberate policy than the consequence of the fact that those not grieving the death of a relative felt more inclined to open their hearts to a stranger; hence I was more likely to encounter them.

However conservatively considerate I imagined this approach to be, it scarcely put me in the clear. My interpreter, to whom I had been close for many years, was sluggish and irritable as I had never seen her; she admitted to being depressed, not to mention enraged at Tepco and her government. Her cousin, who had not met me, expected that I would do harm, and therefore admonished me (a) to interview no one without that Japanese standby, a go-between; (b) to begin by inviting my interviewees to refrain from answering any question they didn’t like; and (c) above all, to pay and pay and pay. I always felt that I was doing just that whenever I visited Japan, being well accustomed to slipping crisp ten-thousand-yen notes into “gratitude envelopes.” Once that would have been a trifle over eighty American dollars; now it was 125. I was willing to keep on disbursing this amount, especially to those in need; my interpreter and her cousin, however, informed me that such a small sum would be “unthinkable.” They expected me to pay at least forty or fifty thousand yen. I dug in my heels, inviting the interpreter to open her heart and add whatever she wished to my envelope, as indeed she did, not without quiet resentment; I’m sure she paid out at least as much as I remitted to her. At length we agreed to disagree. With this ugly episode our work began.

That day and every other I watched the dosimeter, perhaps more frequently than I needed to, but I hardly knew how salubrious each hour might be. The display indeed turned over in increments of 0.1 millirems; there was no in-between. In San Francisco, as I’ve said, it registered that same 0.1 millirems about every twenty-four hours, usually changing sometime during the night. The flight to Japan rewarded me with 1.2 millirems, and the return flight, which was shorter, with 0.8; both of these worked out to more or less a millirem per hour. Tokyo was essentially as radioactive as San Francisco, which pleased me for my own sake and everyone else’s.

At six in the morning, the cumulative reading was 1.5. The bus left Tokyo at eight. I was, let’s say, 230 kilometers from the reactor.


 The plum trees were already in flower; the cherry blossoms must already have opened in the south. Shortly before noon we stopped for lunch in Koriyama, 58 kilometers from the danger spot, the mountain-ringed country opening out, with the rice fields still straw-colored (a month to go before planting) and snow shining on the western peaks; just then the display turned over to 1.6. We had come into the Tohoku region, which the interpreter referred to as Japan’s breadbasket, adding, “so I’m very worried about the future.” Many items in the convenience-store restaurant were sold out. Here the Japanese Self-Defense Forces began to be evident, some of them wearing flat caps and the others sporting hard hats. Continuing northward, we drew level with Plant Number One and then passed it, reaching Sendai (208 kilometers from the bad place) in mid-afternoon. From the dosimeter I judged that Koriyama must be at least twice as radioactive as Tokyo, which hypothesis I would test on my return there, once the safer portion of my work had concluded.

In Tokyo the stresses of the disaster had approached the inconspicuous: a blackout here and there, a shortage of diapers and sanitary wipes, which people were sending to their relatives in the stricken zone. As for Sendai, it was recovering; although the airport was not open, heating gas remained unavailable, and milk, yogurt, eggs, and cigarettes were in short supply, at least the two-hour waits in petrol stations had come to an end and the electricity was back on. Indeed, downtown appeared untouched, if one did not wander about to discover the warning signs posted on this or that building.

I hired a taxi to take me down into the Wakabayashi district of Sendai, which had been harder hit.

“I was on duty in the car,” said the driver, whose name was Sato Masayoshi.


 “There were no passengers. I heard the earthquake alert on the radio. I looked for a wide open place to park, since the buildings were shaking. You couldn’t stand! I was sitting on the median strip. It lasted a good two minutes, moving between east and south, laterally.


When the tremors stopped, I got out of the cab, tried my cell phone, which did not connect, and used a public phone to call my family. It rang and rang but nobody answered. So I drove to the office, received permission to stop working, and hurried home. The traffic jam was terrible, but everybody was okay. We had no electricity for three days. My grandchildren enjoyed it.”

He pointed. “Over there, there’s the restaurant that shook so much. And you see this gas station! The ceiling dropped. .”

“Did the tsunami come here?”

“No, this is all earthquake.”

“What was your opinion when you first heard about the reactor accident?”

“Sendai is eighty or ninety kilos from the power plant,


 so I’m not really worried about it. The wind in this season blows from the land to the sea. If it blows from the south, that will be a problem. The highly contaminated water needs to be released, they say. .”

That was the word I so often heard: contaminated. It sounded less frightening than radioactive.

“How contaminated is the sea around Sendai?”

“I don’t think they’ve measured it yet.”

Gazing down at the dosimeter in my shirt pocket, I was pleased to see it still at 1.6. We came to a shed that had been uprooted. I photographed it, and then the driver remarked, a trifle indignantly: “Today a fishing boat in Chosi Port,


 even without inspection their catch was refused!”

I wondered aloud if fish and eels and other such foods might be getting dangerous. Not caring to pursue those implications, or perhaps simply wishing to return to business, the driver announced like a tour guide: “And now we’re making a right turn to the place where the houses are gone. Here to the left there’s a highway. In some places the highway blocked the water. Some of the people who ran up on top of it survived.”

“Are you worried about the next earthquake?”

“Since the Miyagi Coast earthquake in 1978, it’s been a long time. This latest one was not the one the experts were discussing. People are talking about the next one; yes, there may be another. . Here the water came,” he continued, gesturing at some mud fields decorated with fallen trees and stumps. “On account of the salt water, you won’t be able to grow anything here for five or six years. They were growing soybeans.”

A fallen pine, cables, heaps of mud, bent pipes, metal grilles, fallen poles as thick as my shoulder, these sad and ugly objects varied themselves monotonously all the way to the mud horizon. On one side of the road the former fields were flooded with seawater. On the other, on the edge of streaming tidal flats which used to be rice fields, a two-story concrete house, windowless but seemingly intact, supported a second home that had been smashed up against it, the roof twisted like sections of ruined armor, both structures choked with rubbish. A detachment of goggled, web-belted, booted, camouflage-uniformed Self-Defense Forces from Hokkaido were dissecting the two houses in search of bodies. The slogan one often saw on their helmets was: “Let’s cheer up, Sendai!”

A cool breeze blew from the sea; I wondered if it was poisonous with beta particles. In any event, the dosimeter remained at 1.6. On and on in the house lots, sad heaps of trash that used to be houses hid their secrets. In this prefecture alone, more than 7,800 people had died, according to the current figure. Here came a civilian cyclist, stern and skinny, riding up the dirt road and passing us, continuing down among the house-stumps; I suppose that he was looking for his home. Slowly, while the soldiers stood around, the crane-claw opened and closed, pulling up a heap of crackling tree stumps. A young soldier informed me that they had found no corpses yet. When I photographed him, he pulled himself up tall and straight. He said that he was not worried about radiation; the likelihood of its coming here was low.

It is hard to describe to you the littered flatness, everything pulverized into irrelevance, some foundations still visible. One of the driver’s colleagues had lived here. Now he was staying at his son’s. The neighborhoods of Okada, Gamo, Shiratori, and Arahama were gone. The former geriatric home was full of rubble and trees. By now the trees had already started to decompose, so that when they edged up the sides of houses, they infiltrated them like subtly woven rattan, perfectly fitted by the weaver-upholsterer called death. Occasionally the empty doors and windows of better-off buildings had been protected by blue tarps taped into place. We drove slowly south through the smell of tidal flats, toward the Natori River, passing blue and gray stretches of rippling water, and a sign: Seaside Park Adventure Field.

“I have no words,” the driver said.

Here came mud and muck and shining water, a car in water up to the snout, a policeman in a hard hat, more fallen trees, a red sports car turned onto its side, the light now pretty on the rice fields. In one place, the road had been licked away underneath, the asphalt looking silly as it stretched through the air.

“Were most people drowned or crushed?”

“I think they drowned. Some of the cars were in a traffic jam. I know of one person who climbed up a pine tree to survive. His decision to give up the car was good.”

The cool air was dust-prickly in my throat. The driver and the interpreter both wore masks. I wondered some more about beta particles but decided to rely on the inverse-square law, which in general terms states that as radiation spreads from its source over a greater area, its intensity declines. The Natori bridge had been closed off with a checkerboarded barrel. A man with a light-stick baton and hard hat stood demoralized beside a flashing police car. Behind him, a boat had been pounded sideways into the muck.

“Driver, do you think that nuclear power is wise or unwise?”

“There are three nuclear plants in this prefecture. They are on higher ground than Tepco’s, so I think that is good.”

“So you approve of nuclear power?”

“Well, due to the greenhouse effect, oil and coal are not clean, so as long as they secure the safety, I think that nuclear power is good.”

An old woman in baggy clothes and a flapping shawl staggered down the road. Here came a small cemetery, the steles all upright but the mud churned up disgustingly between them. In the port, the trade show palace appeared in good health from the outside. A glittering stack of Toyotas which had awaited export had been crushed. It was strange to see new paint jobs on pancaked cars.

“So what will happen in the other season when the wind blows in from the south?”

“Well, we don’t have it like that so often.”

“It might only take one time,” I said.

“I agree!” he said with a laugh.




GOURMANDIZING


DUE TO HORDES of soldiers and volunteers in Sendai (the Metropolitan Hotel had been entirely turned over to relief workers), I found accommodations at a hot spring more than an hour’s bus ride out of town. Here various hard-pressed employees of the Osaka Gas Company were staying, and in the morning one sometimes saw a truckload of Self-Defense Forces outside. It was a half-empty, second-rate place where the sashimi came wrapped in plastic, although one could only admire the fervency of their many rules (“We firmly refuse your request to enter the baths when you are drunk or if you have tattoos on your body”).


 The waitress proudly assured me that the food was local insofar as possible, so while I was eating it I grew angry again at Bob the salesman, who had promised me a local measurement probe that had never arrived, and of course at Tepco; for how could I have any idea how carcinogenic the fish might be, not to mention these slightly less than fresh greens accompanying them, or the crab claw in the soup? I was not unmindful of the fact that I could eat while so many others went hungry; nor was I so concerned on my own account, for a man in his fifties has already won a victory of sorts; but what about the pregnant women, the young children, the people who should have had decades to look forward to? In the words of yesterday’s paper: “Govt. holding radiation data back: IAEA gets information, but public doesn’t.”

In the body of the article, an unnamed Meteorological Agency official explained that the Japanese government made its own forecasts — never mind that they had been released only once, because, an official named Seiji Shioya explained, “we can’t do it since accuracy is low.” The unnamed official then remarked: “If the government releases two different sets of data, it might cause disorder in the society.”


Was that why the official statistics offered varying units of measurement, so that in Koriyama the drinking water at the bus station was proclaimed safe on account of its radioactivity being less than a hundred becquerels, while the newspaper reported the radioactivity of this or that city in millisieverts per hour? Nobody I met knew what these numbers meant. How convenient! And so I chopsticked another previously frozen tidbit of horse mackerel into my mouth, wondering how safe it was.




PRESENT INTEREST


IN CASE YOU HAVE NOT NOTICED, I considered this matter of the reactor to be the real story. Sad as the earthquake and the tsunami had been, the damage had been done, the people killed and property ruined; and now recovery could continue until the next quake. But this other horror wrapped up in becquerels, sieverts, and millirems, it was just beginning, and nobody knew how bad it might be.

(I had asked Peter Bradford: “Could it happen here in the States? I understand we have some reactors of the Japanese type.”

“I don’t think the likelihood is driven so much by reactors of that kind as by the fact that we’re just about as vulnerable as the Japanese to complacency about what used to be called a Class Nine accident. I don’t think we’re any less vulnerable than the Japanese.”)

About the earthquake-tsunami and the concomitant reactor disaster it may be apposite to cite the words of Buddha: “Nothing in the world is permanent or lasting; everything is changing and momentary and unpredictable. But people are ignorant and selfish, and concerned only with the desires and sufferings of the present moment. They do not listen to the good teachings; nor do they try to understand them; and simply give themselves up to the present interest, to wealth and lust”


—to, for instance, the tax credits awarded those who dwell near a nuclear reactor, not to mention what the reactor enables and impels.

From Buddha’s point of view, it scarcely matters whether all our ease in life derives from uranium pellets, solar cells, or perpetual motion; in any case, our complacency alone protects the lovely roofs and trees of this present instant from becoming the rubble into which the very next moment might in fact cast them. But how many of us (excepting monks) can live and hope — in other words, chase our present interests — without disregarding our inevitable ends? I say we are “better off” pretending that the bullet train we're riding won’t derail. The peril is remote; probably we will die from something else. When the peril is nearer, present interest advises against disregard. The more present the interest, the less present or apparently present the danger, the more irresistible the disregard.

Hence the following parable, courtesy of the paterfamilias of the family who would soon host me on Oshima Island. Refilling my sake glass as we sat in his dark and chilly mud-stained dining room, he remarked that following an infamous tsunami back in the Meiji era,


 many oceanfront plots here and elsewhere were banned from resettlement, but “somehow,” he jocularly continued, people forgot or set the edict aside. Of course, even had they complied, this latest terror would have carried off ever so many, since it rolled in higher than any wave seen by the people of the Meiji period. Who can blame the inhabitants of Oshima for not predicting that?

However, the corporate engineers and presidents, the prefectural governors, the authorities whose task it ought to be to maximize public safety, these super-actors on the civic stage, they must be held accountable should they abandon themselves to their own present interests. The reason that I unalterably oppose nuclear power is so obvious to me that I remain astounded that everybody on earth is not likewise against it: Dangerously radioactive nuclear wastes must be stored and guarded for periods insanely in excess of any civilization’s frame of reference. Were it possible to render those spent fuel rods harmless in, say, five years, even then I’d worry about carelessness and greed, but at least I would be willing to suppose that nuclear power might be useful. Having reached that point, I would, of course, remain among the complacent ignoramuses against whom Buddha’s warning was directed.

Tepco’s complaint-apology — how could we have been expected to foresee so high a tsunami? — is nearly legitimate, but may fall short. “The cooling facilities survived the earthquake, at least partially,” remarked my interpreter. “The disaster occurred because the cooling facility was totally destroyed by the tsunami. The cooling facility was located lower than the reactor itself. Their assumption was a five-point-seven-meters tsunami while the tsunami was actually fourteen.” Well, should Tepco have been expected to prepare for a fourteen-meter tsunami?

Whatever your answer may be, please consider Buddha’s admonition an instant longer. “They do not listen to the good teachings; nor do they try to understand them; and simply give themselves up to the present interest, to wealth and lust.” If the present interest requires us to consume more and ever more energy, then dangerous forms of energy generation may become accepted as necessary. Practically speaking, any individual Japanese (or American) is powerless to prevent the construction of nuclear plants. But while you read this story, please consider how many more times you desire the Fukushima reactor disaster to occur. Should you come down on my side, consider relocating upwind.




NONE OF US ARE PARTICULARLY CONCERNED


THREE BLOCKS AWAY from the pedestrian mall where on this sunny, breezy afternoon members of the group called Atiatom proffered petitions against nuclear weapons and reactors, in an almost undamaged quarter stood the Sendai City War Reconstruction Memorial Hall, which presently served as a temporary evacuation center for thirty-one voluntary evacuees from Fukushima. One entered through the back door, the earthquake having rendered the lobby’s ceiling ducts liable to collapse. In Japan, neighborhood attachments run deep enough that communities often relocate as coherent entities. Hence the Memorial Hall housed people from a specific place: the northern sector of the radiation-poisoned zone.

Rather than seek out some bureaucrat who might have denied me entry privileges (I had already been refused permission to sleep in several evacuation shelters), I waylaid the first nonuniformed individual who seemed in no hurry — in this case, a bespectacled woman about twenty-five years old who had fled the Haramachi-ku ward of Minami Soma City. Officialdom had drawn two rings around Plant Number One. The inner one, twenty kilometers in diameter, constituted an area of involuntary evacuation. Residents of the outer ring were merely advised to leave, at their own expense; if they wished, they could remain home, keeping indoors as much as practicable. The woman, whose name was Hotsuki Minako, had lived in the outer ring.

She said: “On Friday there was an earthquake. On Sunday or Monday, on the news they said to stay inside. We tried to wait and see, but since we have kids, just my two kids and I came to Sendai with my husband. In a couple of days, my husband’s parents also came here.”

“So now your home is empty?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please tell me more about how you left Minami Soma?”

“After we saw the video of the reactor explosion, we immediately moved. Even after the explosion we thought we could come back. .”

“Did you feel or hear the explosion?”

“No. We only saw the television image. There were three explosions, I think”—she held her fist to her mouth in thought. “And because we had kids, we were concerned. Otherwise we would have simply stayed inside.”

“If somebody cared for your children where it was safe, would you ever go back?”

“Life here is just fine, so we are not too concerned to go back.”

She had a very oval, girlish face; her bangs spilled over her thick eyebrows. Her hooded blue sweatshirt seemed too large for her.

Soon, she believed, her family and neighbors would be moved again, to a hotel, “so that the community itself will continue.” They had already stayed first at a relative’s, then at an elementary school. She supposed that after the hotel they would be moved still again.

“Do you think you’ll be returning home anytime soon?”

“I have a feeling it will take a year or more.”

“When you think about radiation, what comes into your mind?”

“I worked as a clerk for a Tepco subsidiary. So I’ve heard about the danger of radiation and about controlling it, but I hear it’s not that scary. But now, when I hear on television that it can affect your blood and so forth, well, I didn’t know that.”

“Was Tepco a good employer?”

“Those who worked at the nuclear site seemed to enjoy their job, but I only saw them once a month. I was in a clerical department.”

“How are you managing for expenses nowadays?”

“We are using our savings. I heard the city would pay some fifty thousand


 per household, but I was unable to attend the registration for that. The city office is not really functioning. I’ve lost my job, but I don’t know whether I can register for unemployment in this prefecture.”

“Should we ask for you at the prefectural office?”

“My company has not finished the clerical procedures related to our termination, so I cannot.”

She had two children, ages seven and five. Just now they were at the park with her husband. I asked how they were managing, and she replied: “They’ve regressed to a younger state. At home they do everything themselves. Here, I don’t know whether it’s from staying so long and living like this, they say, ‘I can’t do this. .’”

I requested to see how her family lived. She hesitated. “My husband’s mother is a bit depressed, so. .” At length I prevailed on her to at least ask the older woman, who kindly allowed the interpreter and me inside the long, almost empty room, over whose floor stretched many long, narrow tatami mats, very bright and clean, a few bags of belongings in a neat row against the wall. Sheets and blankets had been folded into neat squares and stacked.

Hotsuki Keiko, the mother-in-law, was lying down. She sat up when we came in, smiling politely, lowering her eyes, discreetly half-stretching; perhaps she had been sleeping. She appeared to be not much older than her daughter-in-law. Bowing as respectfully as I could, I inquired how the quake had expressed itself to her.

“At that time I was at home. I rushed out of the house, where there was a big plum tree. I held it for a long time.”

Since Minami Soma lies some distance from the ocean, the tsunami caused her no personal fear. But her aunt and uncle had drowned in their car. Fortunately, she said, the family could recover their bodies. Unfortunately, the cemetery had washed away.

“We were allowed within thirty kilometers. The recommendation was to stay inside. The city mayor told us to evacuate ‘on your responsibility,’ so some are still living there.”

“What is your opinion of the reactor accident?”

“Everyone has always said that nuclear power is safe. .”

“Mrs. Hotsuki, here is a question that baffles me. As a citizen of the country that dropped atomic bombs on Japan, I wonder how this could have happened in your country twice. First you were our victims, and then, it seems, you did it again to yourselves.”

“We don’t know much about the nuclear bomb,” explained the older woman. “They’re pretty far from here, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and we just heard from our parents that some plane came over and so forth. They didn’t talk about it.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Unless you go to that area and see that atomic site, then maybe you have no interest in it.” Trying to give me what I appeared to expect, Mrs. Hotsuki gleaned through her memories, then presently grew animated, gesturing and almost grimacing as if she were close to tears, nodding her head as she said: “Once I saw a display in Chiba Prefecture, all about the kamikazes. I was so moved I couldn’t stop crying.”

Less moved by the kamikazes than perhaps I should have been, I resurrected the matter of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It turned out that both of the Hotsuki women believed the atomic bomb to have been worse than the reactor accident, because “at least we evacuated.” Minako, the young daughter-in-law, explained that “the prefectural office said that if you just brush it off, it should be okay, and you don’t even have to take the radiation screening. So we felt better.”

As Orwell would say, ignorance is strength. Or was the prefectural office correct? Alpha particles were nearly harmless, if one managed not to ingest them; beta particles once washed or brushed away could do no further harm. While I essayed to formulate why that procedure might be inadequate, a pretty girl wearing a red armband bowed herself in, announcing that the child-minders were here again, today with candy; she also wished to inquire whether anyone might be sick. So perhaps it was all perfect; no matter how politely I pleaded, neither of my two interviewees would accept a ten-thousand-yen note, not even for the children’s sake; wouldn’t you rather believe that they lacked for nothing?

Having scored my interview, I dared to risk an encounter with officialdom, and so met a certain bespectacled, pimpled, and narrow-faced young man named Mr. Maeda, who identified himself as “just an employee of this facility. If you put this in your article, you must contact the city office. That’s what we have been told.” (I most inexcusably neglected to follow his instructions, but, reader, if you wish to do so, the telephone number is 022-214-1148.) He photocopied my letter of press accreditation most alertly; fortunately, my interpreter had always reminded me to keep it neatly folded, in homage to its pretense of importance. “In your opinion,” I inquired, “how dangerous is the radiation?” Mr. Maeda replied: “None of us are particularly concerned.”




AN OLD MAN PLANTING SEEDS


ISHINOMAKI, THEY SAID, looked now the way that Sendai had two weeks ago. In Sendai some people stayed for two days on their roofs until the water subsided. In Ishinomaki there were those who were trapped on their roofs for a week.

On the other hand, Ishinomaki was better off than Rikuzentakada. Never mind that; isn’t there always a worse place?

The fifty-kilometer drive in the veterinary science professor’s car would ordinarily have taken an hour. Ever since the quake, there were traffic jams. It took nearly two hours to reach Ishinomaki; and, indeed, in the course of my journey I had almost daily recourse to the four- or six-hundred-dollar creeping taxi ride or half-day stalled bus ride (the region’s railways being broken), on this highway or that expressway, frozen in traffic or not, so many kilometers toward or away from Fukushima, the long windshield wipers sometimes dancing in rain of unknown salubriousness, the radio news on low, the cab creeping and stopping between other cars in a like situation, the driver occasionally misplacing his Japanese patience.

In Ishinomaki the first story of the supermarket was open and newly gleaming. Most goods were present in prequake abundance. Only one yogurt was allowed per customer, several shelves were bare, and others held milk brands from Kyushu and Hokkaido that were not normally sold here. The brand new washing machines were sold out, the tsunami having ruined ever so many; the automobile dealerships were booming for much the same reason.

The professor’s name was Morimoto Motoko. She lived in Sendai. After the tsunami hit, her two teenaged children had stayed overnight in the care of their teachers; now they were living in Osaka with relatives. She was making this drive to bring supplies to one of her students, a young man named Utsumi Takehiro, who now bowed to us; so did his mother, Yoshie. They got into their car and we followed them home, Ishinomaki being less easy to navigate than before. “If you go beyond the number-45 road,” said Takehiro drily, “the scenery changes.”

Passing the vegetable market, which was now a temporary morgue, we rounded a corner, and I saw many grooves cut deep in the smooth tan earth, with a line of cars and people perpendicular to them on the far side, and white coffins down in the farthest of those open trenches. Takehiro’s grandmother was buried here. The tsunami had caught her. From the way that he spoke about her, I came to believe that he had loved her very much.

“I didn’t see the body, actually,” he said. “My parents saw a hundred bodies every day. They finally found her. Now it takes a year or two before they’re cremated. First, we temporarily bury them. Then they’re disinterred. There are only a few crematoria, so we have to take turns.”




“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Our dog was also killed, because he was chained. We took his body to Niigata, where my father was working, and cremated him. But you need a special vehicle to transport a human body, and those are in shortage.”

Now came heaps of mud, canted trailers, gouged walls, crumpled cars, the crazy skeleton of a shed barely supporting its intact roof, many relief workers and blue-clawed cranes, half-smashed houses on a muddy ugly plain with wet trenches tunneled through it, man-high mounds of debris on the roadside; and so we came into the Tsukiyama district (the clouds like sheets of white slate, the sun in the pine tops, and the dust in my throat). Several large oil tanks had exploded, setting off numerous fires. We rolled past the wreckage of the paper mill, whose round bales of product lay oozing and dripping everywhere. Paper was now in short supply, remarked Mrs. Utsumi.

“My uncle was rescued by helicopter, and he appeared on TV,” said Takehiro proudly.

An American battleship lay on the horizon of the pale blue sea. Here came a long mild wave, its crest so clean. One of its predecessors, the tsunami, had dragged a giant fuel tank onto what remained of the dike. More heaps of mud framed our scenic drive, accompanied by fuel tanks thrust against and through roofs, cars leaning against trees, block after block of ugliness; and presently we turned down a street of newly made junk lots and Takehiro said, “This is my house.”

His next-door neighbor Kawanami Shugoro made us black coffee on a butane-powered hot plate on the dust-choked rickety table inside his blighted house, which appeared intact on the outside. He wore a cap, presumably for warmth. Fat hunks of ceiling dangled down from the rafters, the Sheetrock torn like cardboard. Everything in the living room cabinet was in place, but the cabinet itself tilted at about thirty degrees.

Mr. Kawanami said: “When the earthquake came I was at home. My office had some meeting, so I was trying to change into a suit. At that time there was not much damage, so I changed back into my work clothes and drove the clerical worker to her home near the supermarket. Then I headed toward the office. Then there was a traffic jam, and they said that the tsunami was coming, so I made a U-turn, meaning to come home again. I saw water coming out of the canal by the senior high school and vehicles were floating; so, since that direction was no good, I made another U-turn and took a higher direction. At the river’s edge, the fire department personnel told me not to go that way, but it didn’t look bad. All the same, the water level seemed a bit higher, and then I saw it come over the dike. So I fled. I had to sleep on the ground for four days. I went to Yamato to confirm that my grandchildren were all right. Then there was a gas shortage, and it was so cold. I found a garbage bag to keep me warm — so cold, so cold! It was snowing. I tried to find someplace warm; I took more and more garbage bags for a shirt. .”

“What color was the tsunami?”

He laughed. “I don’t remember. It was black, they said, with oil.”

He was a cheery, rugged, white-bearded old man — sixty-six years old, with the face of a workingman. At the shipyard he was in charge of safety and hygiene. The neighbors stood around us. Cans of juice were on the filthy table. His wife had led some panicked Chinese girls up onto the second story of a parking lot, and they all survived. “Everyone went to the roofs,” he said. The second or third tsunami wave had been in his opinion the bad one, people floating in their cars and calling out for help until they sank. Mr. Kawanami said, “These images were in my brain yesterday, and I got depressed and confused. .”

A couple of his acquaintance had fled. The wife had returned home for their valuables, because she was a strong swimmer. Fortunately, they recovered her corpse, which still gripped a bag of precious things.

“When you think of all you’ve suffered,” I asked him, “do you think the reactor accident might be better or worse than that?”

“What shall I say? I can’t even imagine. This area is where elderly people are residing. It requires money to rebuild a house, and many people are scared. My wife says that if everybody leaves, then only we will stay. We think that since we are old, we can stay until we die, since this”—he must have meant the tsunami—“happens only on a thousand-year scale. I planned to retire this year and live a nice relaxed life. But the money for my future will have to be spent on repairs. Moreover, the people at the nuclear plant, they are talking about some nuclear explosion. Our governor is so proud of our nuclear plant, compared with Fukushima.”

In the filth, muddy dishes were neatly stacked. Freshwater was still too rare for washing just yet.

At my request, Mr. Kawanami took me upstairs to admire the sand and silt. He said: “When the wave came, each tatami mat struggled like this!” and his arms writhed.

Thanking him and departing with my best bow, I was next introduced to Mrs. Ito Yukiko, age sixty-six, who received me narrow-eyed, with her shoulders drawn in and her fists on her lap as she sat on the edge of her chipped, cracked concrete porch, wearing orange wind pants, a dingy sweater, and a white-striped wool cap pulled down over her eyebrows. The toes of her slippers touched the mucky, rubbly ground, which happened to be decorated with broken dishes. Here as everywhere else in that neighborhood the smell of diesel was nauseating. Her two young granddaughters, wearing galoshes, played at sweeping the doorway, then settled down to read what might have been comic books. They were very shy; I left them alone. I did not ask, since no one mentioned them, where their parents might be.

“I was born in the beach area,” Mrs. Ito said. “I have experienced the Chilean tsunami, and also another one in this prefecture. So I knew well that when an earthquake comes, you have to take care in case of a tsunami. But this one,” she said, grimacing (and stopping to pick up a spoon that one of the little girls had dropped), “this one was different.”

Well aware that quake-deformed doors might trap people behind them, she had carefully opened the house door in advance, then rode out the temblor just within, for fear of getting brained by her roof tiles. Unlocking the safe, she removed “the memory of the ancestors,” evidently their Buddhist memorial tablets, and then, believing she still had time, searched for a cotton furoshiki cloth in which to wrap them. One of the granddaughters then suggested that she might wish to take the cell phone. And so they fled in the car. Sending the two girls ahead, she returned to the vehicle to retrieve their dog and her wallet. Here her hands began twisting tighter and tighter together in her lap, and when she said, “I took a narrow way, and then I saw the tsunami in the middle of the road,” I found the horror in her round reddish face nearly unendurable.

“The first wave took all the belongings away from me, so then I ran to where the wave was lower. I know that a human cannot escape the tsunami once she is caught in it, so I removed my shoes and climbed a wall, and first it was unstable, but I found a stable place, clinging with my toes. The water was up to my waist, and then it was up to my chest; I was holding onto the roof so that I couldn’t be carried away; I was screaming help, help, help! to the spirit of my late husband. . Then it came.”

The grandchildren went on reading books in their galoshes in the fishy, diesely wind (and since it might for all I knew be blowing from the reactor, I inspected my dosimeter, which at six in the morning had been reading 1.9 accrued millirems and now after three hours in Ishinomaki turned over to 2.0, which signified that the radioactivity here was at least twice that of Tokyo’s — not bad; never mind those hypothetical beta particles riding on the wind); and a crow cawed; there was a heap of tires; from a glassless window, sodden futons hung out to dry.

“I was on the rooftop, so I was rescued at the end, before it got dark. I didn’t see my granddaughters for two days, but their teacher told me they were all right. .”

Behind a leaning grate, her old neighbor was picking up clinking things from the mud of his former yard.

“How relevant is the nuclear accident to you?” I asked her.

“The power plant may be necessary, but they ought to publish the facts. It seems to be stopped all right, but is it really? They’ve said that in some fishery products the concentration is low, but accumulation will be bad. .”

Gazing down at the sand by her feet, I saw a small fish-mummy, convulsed.

In a narrow zone of sand between two ruined houses, an old man was planting seeds. Streams of plastic twitched in the tsunami-pollarded trees. A twisted cypress, still green, rested against the patio wall of a house that had been smashed open on its eave-end. I bowed goodbye to Mrs. Ito, who slowly crept into her house.




CONCERNING A KOTO NOW UNDER REPAIR


HOW MANY SUCH STORIES would you care to hear? I collected a number; they are much the same in the one quality that causes journalists to seek them out, just as are the grimacing, often swollen, frequently forehead-bruised corpses whose images face us on the fluttering blue tarp-wall of that temporary morgue at Ishinomaki; their expression much depends on the angle of the head. The survivors who view them keep calm, in the best Japanese manner, gesturing each other forward with a polite “hai, domo!”, offering one another the best views of those horrid faces, whose eyes are usually closed.

One woman was explaining to another: “I came here to look for my mother-in-law, but since the faces are swollen it’s difficult, and the number I specified was wrong; that’s why I couldn’t identify her right away. .”

On the other side of the long rectangle of sunlight, a priest was ringing a bell, and a photograph gazed down upon a bed of donated flowers. Relatives bowed over the ritual bowl; candles flickered. The priest bowed. My throat ached with dust.

Thinking to learn more, I asked a policeman for information, so he referred me to his chief, who could do nothing without the big boss, who when I asked him how many people had died in Ishinomaki rewarded me with a perfect answer: “Our policy is not to answer regarding the individual numbers.” Bowing and thanking him, I said that in that case I had no further questions; reddening, he bowed deeply and apologized for keeping me waiting.

So let us at least momentarily leave the narratives of loss at rest with their eyes closed (the bulldozers clearing more long narrow corpse-trenches in the dirt, twenty bodies per line, three temporary cemeteries in Ishinomaki, and a long green line of Self-Defense Forces dividing into two detachments to break open buildings in search of bodies), while we consider what meaning, if any, we can find in them. In this context let me now reintroduce you to Takehiro’s mother, Mrs. Utsumi Yoshie.

“What lesson if any do you see in this event?” I asked her.

“Since March 11, something is finished. I feel that something different has begun. We have never had the experience of losing everything to this extreme. The good lesson,” she laughed, “is to keep valuable things on the second floor!”

“Will your lives be worse?”

“Of course I believe they’re going to be better,” she replied, sitting with me in the dirty wreckage inside her house, with smashed things everywhere.

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know why. The passage


 of daily life will create another sense of value. Unless you think that way, you cannot advance.”

I told her how brave I considered her and all of them to be, at which she remarked that for some time she had been taking lessons in playing the koto, a traditional stringed instrument the notes of which I have sometimes been graced to hear in Kyoto’s and Kanazawa’s secluded teahouses: slow, quiet, and (to me) melancholy notes reassembling some blurred ghost face out of the melodies of olden times. I hope never to forget how it was for me in that small chamber in Gion when the lovely old geisha Kofumi-san danced the “Black Hair Song,” to which Kawabata and Tanizaki allude in their greatest novels.


 It pleased me that Mrs. Utsumi also knew and indeed had mastered this tune, whose simple mention made her faintly smile. For a fluttering instant the two of us lived again in the Japan of March 10, 2011—the day before Ishinomaki became newsworthy.

I wondered whether she had time to play for me on her koto, but the instrument had been submerged in the filthy wave. Right now it was under repair. Very softly she said: “A koto is like a living thing to me, so I was very sad. We lost our dog, but when I saw the koto so dirty with mud I felt so sad. .”

I asked her sons which possessions they themselves had been the most distressed to lose. “All!” they laughed cheerfully. Since not enough chairs remained, they stood around us inside that dark and chilly ruin with its bitter stench of dust.

And what did they all think about the reactor accident?

“I think the fact that it occurred cannot be helped,” the mother said. “I want Tepco to work hard and the vegetables to be grown again. I would like to buy the vegetables from Fukushima, but. .”

“Do you think it will become contaminated here?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What will you do?”

“We have nowhere else to go.”

“Have you suffered any nightmares?” I asked her.

“In my case, I didn’t see the tsunami with my own eyes. I wasn’t able to return home for two days, so I didn’t experience that, but the fire, well, we could see it so vividly from our hill


 that I was almost afraid it might come to us; at three in the morning there was an announcement that the flame might come to us, so we evacuated.”

“But no nightmares?”

“No. The fire burned two days. .”

“I cannot live in our home,” Mrs. Utsumi said later. “It’s too scary. I cannot live there again, even if we have to build a new house. .”

Not knowing what else to say, I repeated that she was brave, and she said, “I think that if we live decently, that will give my mother-in-law peace of mind. She would not have wanted an expensive coffin for her temporary burial; she would have preferred to have the money go to her grandchildren.”

I nodded. The dust ached in my chest.

“To console my dead mother-in-law, I would like my two sons to work hard to rebuild this city.”

One saw small germinations of this stoically and at times quixotically resurgent impulse here and there in Ishinomaki; I remember a gang of workmen with white rags around their foreheads, dragging soaked tatamis out of a warehouse, needing a wheelbarrow and a man on each end, such was the water weight; and then the car rolled down past a wide hill of garbage, many men in rubber boots standing in a puddled courtyard, waiting for I know not what; but less than a month had passed since the tidal wave, so that more conspicuous than these were the antediluvian survivals: for example, the age- or diesel-blackened torus of a small shrine standing alone in the mud struck me with déjà vu, and later I remembered an image made by the great photographer Yamahata Yosuke in Nagasaki, 1945: not dissimilar to Ishinomaki, 2011, except that in the former case the wreckage around the torus appeared to be almost exclusively wooden. Moreover, a certain wheeled fragment, evidently deriving from a cart, seemed more slender than any modern counterpart, and the backdrop was all white-veined gray smoke.




Before we returned to Sendai’s stopped Ferris wheel and rectangular dirt fields speckled with pale trash, the elder of the two boys, whose name was Yuya, said to me: “I would like to eat food from this area to help the farmers.”

“You mean, you wish to eat produce grown near the nuclear plant?”

He nodded with a calm smile.

Professor Morimoto having already gone home, they drove us to the bus station. I told them that there was no reason for them to wait for us to board our bus, but Mrs. Utsumi assured me that they had nothing better to do.




WHEN THE WIND COMES FROM THE SOUTH


IN THE NIGHT there was a tremor at the hot spring, which became a moderate quake, and there came a swaying and a shaking as I lay on my tatami. I knew that I could do nothing but relax, being on the fifth floor. Fortunately, the room contained hardly any furniture (people sometimes told me how televisions and books could literally fly off the wall).

As the blue-white dawn glanced through the rush blinds, the dosimeter still pleasantly lodged at 2.0, the new taxi driver called to report that the road had been “broken,” so an early start would be best. The power was out again in Sendai, it seemed, and when we stopped to pick up Professor Morimoto, now on another mercy errand to a student of hers on Oshima Island, we found her shaken and discouraged. The elevator was dead, of course, so the driver and I carried her suitcases of batteries and other provisions down six flights of stairs, then we sped down the crisp road.

By now the dosimeter read 2.1. Laughing, the driver, a strong man in late middle age, remarked that he and his wife had just finished clearing up the earthquake damage from their home, and now, after the most recent tremors, their crockery lay smashed on the floor again! The railroad station at Sendai was leaking through the roof, he remarked, so it might have become unusable. Meanwhile the interpreter looked up from the newspaper to report that restrictions on the fisheries in Miyagi Prefecture might be put into place for two months, which I imagined could possibly turn into twenty or fifty years. Early plum blossoms and very occasional palm trees kept us company as we passed the straw-colored rice fields; a seagull overflew us. The radio announced that 916 households had been “powered down” by last night’s event. Here came another hour-long traffic jam, since the trains were stopped.

In time we entered the diesel-flavored ugliness of Furukawa, which the creeping of all vehicles allowed us to inspect to our hearts’ content: small banks, billboards, automobile carriers, undistinguished houses behind hedges, pachinko parlors surrounded by empty parking lots, car washes, a tombstone shop laid out on blacktop overlooking a dirty concrete-lined canal. We stopped at a dark convenience store so that the two women could relieve themselves but the washroom was out of order. Half an hour later, their experience repeated itself in an establishment whose dim shelves were partially bare. A single clerk received a long line of customers who appeared to be buying mostly bottled liquids. His cash register was asleep, of course. Everybody was patient. Back on the road we began to see the long crack in the asphalt, running parallel to the white line; sometimes there were fragments of pavement sticking up like bedraggled roosters’ combs. At one place, two yellow-uniformed road workers shared a long gauging-pole between them, inserting it into a fissure in the highway as if they were fascinated.

The cracks gradually grew more impressive. They were at their worst as the road slipped on and off bridges. The driver sighed and shook his head; the two women were silent. Then the highway improved again.

After a longish time we came down into Kesennuma, 172 kilometers from Fukushima Plant Number One, meeting ever larger heaps of broken lumber, then ruined buildings, mounds of metal and masonry, upturned cars. The driver groaned, “Awh! Ehh!”

I never knew how Kesennuma used to look; all I know of the place is street after street of rainy trash, wrecked cars, burned cars, trash in puddles, trash-hills with sludgy pools between them, a bad-tasting rain (and for all I know, the most dangerous thing I did on that entire trip was to hold the interpreter’s dripping umbrella for her while she went to the washroom). Sometimes filth-darkened fibers, cables, and splinters hung down in doorways like teeth in a monster’s maw. The dirt roads had on occasion come to resemble dikes between rectangular ruin-fields


 heaped with garbage and filled to the brim with stinking water. Many houses resembled auto wrecking yards. On higher ground, where it was less watery, former neighborhoods simply looked like vandalized construction sites. And in one puddly, muddly stretch, another vermilion shrine-torus stood alone above junk and filth, just as at Ishinomaki.

Kesennuma, they say, derives from an Ainu word meaning “bay.” Across the street from the harbor whose street sign was buckled and torn and whose power wires were having a bad hair day, the flooded parking garage smelled like the sea and rain spanked down onto the sidewalk. A gaunt cyclist in grubby gray pedaled past, his dust mask down around his neck. The milky-green-gray sea did not seem foul. The rain made the air less dusty, although possibly more radioactive; I never forgot that the dosimeter couldn’t tell the difference. After hauling Professor Morimoto’s boxes of batteries over to the ferry landing I stood gazing uphill across the concrete chunks and through the rebar, over the matchbox-crushed houses, chairs, futons; here was a house whose upper story looked virginal but whose first floor had entirely disappeared except for one wall. The rubble led my gaze up to two red roofs and somebody’s pine tree, which had been manicured into cloudlike lobes of green in traditional Japanese style.

The unevenly humming ferry bore crates of apple juice and other supplies. A long-haired adolescent boy whose shirt said HAVE A NICE YEAR 2009 was one of the many who wore dust masks; the dosimeter was steady at 2.1. A tiny girl in a pink windbreaker sat in her mother’s lap, playing with a toy pistol, laughing gleefully, reaching out uncomprehendingly at a horizon of broken ships. Lumber floated here and there, and another boat lay sunk as if by enemy aircraft. Fingers and claws of wreckage protruded from the chilly sea. After half an hour of filthy slicks, scraps of foam rubber and Styrofoam, a row of multicolored garbage-flecks, a seagull flying very low, a lost bamboo pole, and the orange prow of a ship sticking out of the water upside down like the bill of a dead porpoise, we landed at Oshima Island (165 kilometers from the reactor; population about three thousand), where Professor Morimoto’s student Murakami Takuto awaited us.

The Murakami family’s is the last tsunami story I will tell. They were of old stock, their ancestors marine soldiers who fought on the side of the Heike in that famous twelfth-century civil war, about which so much great literature has been written. The Tale of the Heike opens in a way not devoid of reference to the events of this essay: “The bell of the Gion Temple tolls into every man’s house to warn him that all is vanity and evanescence. The faded flowers of the sala trees by the Buddha’s deathbed bear witness to the truth that all who flourish are destined to decay.”




The first floor of their house had been half submerged. The second floor was fine. Almost all of their electrical appliances would have to be replaced, from the rice cooker to the new television to the heating system, which unfortunately and uncharacteristically had not employed natural gas.

In the dining room, which now needed work, Grandmother Fumiko (born in 1933) said, speaking very slowly, tilting her wide, handsome face: “On that day I was in the garden when the earthquake broke out. When it stopped, I came in; there wasn’t much damage, just some glasses and candlesticks. Then I heard the tsunami alert: someone from the fire department calling on the loudspeaker. I cannot run like others. Then I saw the wave: lots of bubbles, so it was white. It was low. And I saw another big wave coming behind it, and so I tried to run. I ran to a higher place. Had I taken the big road I would have been drowned. I took the narrower, higher road. I looked back; the neighbor’s house was floating. After that, I picked up a bamboo stick and used it as a cane. In this city an elementary school is used as an evacuation center. I still live there. I just came here to welcome you.

“In the beginning we couldn’t communicate with anyone. After five days the parents came and I learned that the three grandchildren had survived. It was so scary that I trembled and couldn’t stop. I couldn’t sleep. Friends offered me clothes, rice balls,


 and a futon, so I’m doing fine.”

She then said: “For 350 years our family has been living here, and our ancestors’ saying is that in the Meiji era the big tsunami could not come up to here; therefore this house is safe. If I believed the saying of the ancestors, I wouldn’t be alive.”

“Are you concerned about the accident in Fukushima?”

“The radiation, when it rains, they tell us not to get wet. .”

(Her grandson later told me: “About radiation people on this island don’t know anything.”)

I made my usual remark that after Hiroshima and Nagasaki it seemed particularly sad to me that Japanese were once again suffering from radiation, to which the old lady replied, clasping her hands: “I just want them to be careful.”

“The pines are all fallen and gone,” said the grandmother, stretching out her left hand toward where they used to be, out across the broken trees and sand and over the sea toward the former location of the great rock that the two grandsons used to call their “target” when they swam together. “From here we used to be able to see the sun rising through the pines. We were so proud of that. Now the ocean seems closer. That’s a little scary.”

In the garden she had grown corn, rapeseed, spinach, pumpkins, and white radishes.


 She said, “I feel so lonely now that I have nothing left to work on.”

The interpreter, Professor Morimoto’s student Takuto, and I went for a walk. Down on the futile breakwater of the wrecked beach we found a dripping Chinese book for boys and girls — the property of his late grandfather. “But we never read it anyway,” he laughed, leaving it for others. I found a field now prettily sown with scallop shells, a bamboo grove hung with garbage.

We met a fisherman in an orange jacket; he thought that a third of the island’s inhabitants had died on March 11. He said: “First they ran, then they returned to fetch something important; they didn’t survive.”

“Radiation?” he cried. “No, that’s Fukushima. We have nothing to do with that.”

Walking past him to the end of the concrete jetty was nearly pleasant, the gulls calling from their low islet, the sea wind smelling so delicious that I could not make myself wear a mask, my dosimeter still at 2.1. The setting sun cast a white trail on the water, and a helicopter, probably from the Self-Defense Forces, hummed out behind a cloud. As the day failed, the sad tokens of the tsunami withdrew into the shadow, until Oshima appeared nearly whole.

Takuto said to me: “I would like to do everything I can for this island. I would like to grow up and be a human being and help.”

Although our clothes were getting quite dirty (we expected to discard them after entering the hot zone), that kind and hospitable family refused to let us use our sleeping bags. Father and son laid out futons for the two women, and a bed for me in the adjacent chamber. That meant that the rest of them slept downstairs in those chilly rooms that stank of muck. Our host’s flashlight wavered slow and white around his belly, Professor Morimoto’s cell phone glowing as she and her student giggled over some stupid display, the interpreter switching on her headlamp, which illuminated her face, and I writing notes with the aid of my American flashlight, which was more yellow than anyone else’s.

Although the Murakamis accepted half a dozen cans of American food, they insisted on cooking us dinner. Ashamed and grateful, we came downstairs to the table, where Mr. Murakami’s stubbled, mustached face gleamed in the light of the Coleman lantern. He was the assistant headmaster of an elementary school. After the earthquake, he had permitted some students to depart in the care of their parents. I could tell that he felt guilty about what could have taken place; as it happened, however, they survived the tidal wave. He pressed on me a satellite-photograph disaster map of Oshima. With his spectacles high on his forehead, he showed me the family home on the map. He said: “Far too optimistic.”

The mother, Mrs. Murakami Kaoru, in her checked apron, stayed nearly always on her feet, her pale arms and cheekbones shining, the other grandmother slowly nodding her heavy head at the two of her three grandsons who were present, while bananas and aluminum foil shone softly in the dark. Mrs. Murakami invariably bowed to the grandmother when offering her food, with a polite “hai, dozo.” Given the absence of refrigeration I cannot imagine how she managed so well to make that ad hoc stew, many of its ingredients perishable. Mr. Murakami said: “For the first five days, we got only one rice ball per day, so I became thinner.”

An hour before dinner he had already been promising me treasure: a bottle of sake rescued from the first floor after the ocean departed. The sodden label was nearly invisible in the darkness. Again and again he filled my water glass to the brim, meanwhile offering it around to the other guests. Embarrassed to take so much from him, I finally pleaded tipsiness, at which he happily continued to fill his own glass, not least, he remarked, because it was Saturday night. He kept saying to his wife in English: “I love you.” She smiled with pleasure. I am happy to report that on the following drizzly sober morning, he said it again.

In the midst of dinner the electricity came back on, and they happily shouted, “Surprise!”, the grandsons grinningly illuminated. I assured our two hostesses that they were even more beautiful by electric light, and the grandmother clapped her hand over her laughing mouth.

Whenever I mentioned Hiroshima the whole family grew sad and silent, so I hated to bring up the matter, but it seemed my duty to raise it once more with the patriarch, which I did while we were still eating in the dark. The whites of his eyes seemed to flare. “Because Fukushima is prosperous on account of their fishery,” he said, “I fear their decline.” To me this seemed so Japanese, to worry about others first! He went on: “Atomic power is very dangerous. To me, it’s so dangerous. To me, it’s like war.”

That afternoon I had asked Takuto how he imagined the worst might be, and he replied, not quite a week before the Japanese government admitted that the reactor accident was a Level Seven like Chernobyl’s: “Like Chernobyl. Oshima could be contaminated. In the summer the wind comes from the south.”




III: INTO THE FORBIDDEN ZONE





~ ~ ~







Soldiers in Ishinomaki. Photo by William T. Vollmann

I WON’T DENY MY SELFISH RELIEF at leaving the stinking ugliness of Kesennuma and Oshima, not to mention my anticipation of getting safely home where such things never happen (Sacramento, my home city, is second only to New Orleans for flood risk in America). As well as I could determine from my dosimeter, the radiation in Kesennuma and Oshima seemed to be double that of Tokyo: a millirem every twelve hours. Now it had come time to return to Koriyama, and from there to make a foray or two into the evacuation zone.

At five-thirty in the morning in Oshima, the meter read 2.2 millirems, having turned over once since dusk. At nine-thirty on the Tohoku Expressway, after two hours of moderate rain and just north of the Ohira exit, it reached 2.3. Shortly before one in the afternoon, just as we came into Koriyama, it showed 2.4. By eight that night, thanks no doubt to a certain pleasure drive which I will shortly recount, it was at 2.5, and before six the following morning it had achieved a glorious 2.6 millirems: four times the Tokyo baseline, in short. According to the newspaper, the actual level was closer to forty-four times Tokyo’s,


but, optimist that I am, I’ll keep faith with the toy Bob sold me. Here is an appropriate place to say that my dosimeter’s figure for Koriyama, the highest reading of any twenty-four-hour interval excepting the days of my two international flights, is not bad at all: it works out to 146 millirems per year. One American dosimetrist opined that as much as half of this might be predisaster “natural” background radiation.


To reach my danger threshold of 5 rems, I would have had to hang around Koriyama for more than thirty-four years. All the same, if I were young, I might not want to marry and raise children in Koriyama.







THE WIND THAT COMES FROM THE SEA


REGARDING THAT DAY’S PLEASURE DRIVE, I will tell you that shortly after five in the evening, once the nasty and potentially hazardous rain had ceased, the interpreter and I hired a taxi to convey us to the Komatsu Shrine, of which none of us, including the driver, had ever heard; the interpreter and I had chosen it after a glance at her map. The driver was a bald old man who insisted on his financial rights. His stubbornness had nothing to do with the danger; the question was whether to pay by the hour, the meter, or the job. Finally we compromised on all three. The driver then said that this journey might not even be allowed, because it seemed as if Komatsu Shrine might lie — what a coincidence! — within the forced evacuation ring. He radioed his boss, who gave us his blessing, and off we went. Needless to say, I watched the dosimeter, expecting radiation to rise in proportion to the inverse-square law, but anyhow I have already spoiled the suspense of that business.

The driver had picked up only two fares that day, both of them insurance company operatives who were verifying earthquake damage. Now the highway was open, he continued, so that made it smooth. He was a good talker, and I had already begun to like him. The dosimeter remained at 2.4 and the evening was clear, the bare trees on the verge of appearing springlike. Here came more lovely silver-white plum blossoms in the dusk. The driver said that he used to party in Kesennuma; he was an angler; the fish were so good there. I did not have the heart to tell him what the fisherman in the orange windbreaker had told me in Oshima — that all the fishing was ruined there for years to come.




He said that Koriyama was very quiet at night now.

Rolling up the ever emptier road into the grassier hills, we saw here and there a long straight line of cabbages in the grass, or jade-colored onions growing high. We were all wearing masks for the dust. The taxi was hot; my mask made me a trifle nauseous; but I thought it best not to roll down the window. Did the driver worry about the contamination? (Contamination was once again the word they all used; oh, it sounded so much better than radioactivity!) Not at all, he chuckled. “My wife,” he laughed, “she told me since it was raining not to go out, but I don’t care at all! The government always says: no immediate effect on your health! Ha, ha, ha! Every day they announce the level of radiation within the prefecture. Compared with an X-ray check, which is 600 sieverts,


 that doesn’t sound scary at all!”

“Was that sieverts or millisieverts?” I inquired.

“I thought it was six hundred,” he said vaguely, “but however strong the contamination is, it’s not comparable. We have never thought about these things.”

The driver’s bald head was as pale yellow as the bamboo leaves at sunset, and he seemed rather happy, the local road winding us under bluish-purple clouds, ostensibly toward Funehiki, and then as the driver mentioned a fine cherry-blossom-viewing spot (although the season was still too early), we turned onto National Highway 288.

Since he had been born in 1941, I asked him how he compared the dropping of the two atom bombs with the reactor accident, and he said, “There was a movie I saw as a child, a black-and-white movie, so vividly showing the ruins of Hiroshima and Bikini Island. Now, Koriyama is farther than the thirty-kilometer ring; in fact, it’s sixty; but if there’s a hydrogen explosion, I’m afraid that Koriyama may be in the forced evacuation zone. Having reached the age of seventy, if we’re told to evacuate, I said to my wife, where should we go, Sado or where? When I see the situation of evacuees, I don’t seem to be in a good condition! In Koriyama there are three evacuation centers, mainly from the forced evacuation ring around the reactor. Most people are in a hall called Big Palette, which can accommodate three thousand people. There’s also a baseball stadium which holds three or four hundred, and. .”

Night globes glowed in a roadside restaurant, and then at a gas station. We rolled across the Inasokamatsi River, then down through a cut tasseled with golden grass, a gray-green volcanic-shaped mountain projecting itself ahead upon the pale cloudy sky. An old man in a russet robe toiled slowly uphill toward his house, swaying from side to side. Presently we entered the municipality of Funehiki. The driver said, “You know Chernobyl? I watched on the news; there was a ninety-year-old woman who grows her own vegetables, lives alone, and gets sick occasionally but is basically fine.” How inspiring, I thought.

Turning away from the route that led to the famous limestone caves, he said, “Where we are going is about forty kilometers from the plant. If you stay on this road, you will go straight there,” at which the back of my neck prickled slightly. “If you pass that point up there, you approach the mountain and then you go down again.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Once. It was a tour. At that time we never thought this could happen.”

That afternoon while we waited for the rain to stop, the interpreter and I had swallowed our Cold War — era potassium iodide tablets, courtesy of my friend Dave, who had purchased a bottle at some gun show. The bright yellow-green, crumbling pills were to be taken only in the event of fallout, said the label. (My tongue tingled for days and I got a rash; the interpreter remained unaffected.) In retrospect I am ashamed that we did not think to bring one along for our driver. Fortunately, the meter remained at 2.4.

We entered the town of Tokiwa and stopped at the shrine. The mask had fogged up my glasses so badly that I pulled it off, gratefully inhaling the chilly air. The interpreter and I ascended the stone stairs. Above the wooden-slatted offering box, the immense corn-hued tassel, the size and proportions of a girl-child’s skirt, barely swayed in the breeze, ferruled (if that is the word) by a tall hexagon engraved with the name of the person who had dedicated it. Climbing the last wooden steps in stockinged feet as tradition requires, I peered into the windows of the place and, as usual, saw mostly darkness, interrupted by the reflection of that tassel behind me and by indistinct golden gleamings deep within. My heart revolted at slipping the mask back on, but I did, descending toward the pines and clouds and down to the steep edge of this high place, down the decrepit stone steps, which might have been damaged by the earthquake. I could smell the pines.

Informing the driver that the dosimeter still indicated a safe amount of radiation, I asked whether he would be willing to take us farther.

“Sure,” he laughed. “I’ll take you to the point where you can’t go anymore.”

“The radio announces it every day,” he remarked. “For the past few days, this area has had a very low level.”

So we drove up the road toward Futaba, the pallid roofs of houses fading into the low oaks. “This area is close to the plant, but they say it is not just distance but also geography,” he explained. Suddenly we reached a yellow signboard, no more impressive than any sidewalk restaurant’s, whose red letters warned: DANGER: ENTRY IS RESTRICTED 10 KILOMETERS FROM HERE. We had entered the voluntary evacuation zone. From here on, the road was quite empty. The next village was virtually lightless, except for the yellow windows of three sidewalk vending machines from which no one had yet pulled the plugs. Another sign for Futaba and an indication that we were still on Highway 288 separated us from the following village. Now it had become nearly pitch dark, although I could infrequently make out the silhouettes of forest ridges.

I told the driver that this excursion was very interesting. He chuckled: “I am ready to cooperate as much as possible, because anyway I don’t have much longer to live.”

There came another winding stretch. Soon we would arrive at Miyako Oji (twenty kilometers from the reactor), beyond which rose a mountain that would, I hoped, protect us from beta particles and gamma rays. I inquired whether there might be any legend relative to Miyako Oji; the driver replied that there was not. “What’s popular in this vicinity is beetles for the kids. They produce them here.” As a matter of fact, the interpreter had once purchased a pet beetle for her sons (although whether or not it came from Miyako Oji she did not know); it failed to thrive, I am sorry to say. When we turned right at the junction for Inaki, it was quite dark. “Most of them are gone, I guess,” said the driver.

And so we came to the inner ring, where tall signs with black and red letters interrupted the road, the prefecture proclaiming that further travel was forbidden while the police merely announced that it was restricted. In the darkness beyond lurked a police riot bus, empty or not. Since there was nothing to see and the hazards (including perhaps arrest) were unknown, I could not in good conscience ask the driver and the interpreter to go any farther that night, brave though they were. We did take a spin through Miyako Oji, whose houses seemed intact but dark. A lonely white dog trotted up to the taxi, looking up at us hopefully; as we continued on our way it darted crazily back and forth. The driver remarked that the evacuation centers such as Big Palette did not allow any pets, which therefore had to be left behind. Should I have tried to take it to some animal shelter in Koriyama, if there were such a place? Who knew how contaminated the creature was?

“It’s the first time that I’ve seen this here,” said the driver. “It’s like a ghost town. About twenty years ago in Koriyama, on Christmas Eve a cable fell, and there was a blackout, so black! And this is the first time since then.”

As we began to drive away from the reactor I pulled my mask off and instantly tasted dust in my throat, which made me anxious, because what if the dosimeter were lying? It was all I had to go on, really.

The old driver said, “What’s the most scary around here is the wind that comes from the sea. That’s when the radiation comes. In summer, that’s when it comes.”

A quarter-hour later, at eight o’clock, the dosimeter clocked 2.5 millirems.




THEY DID IT FOR THE NATION


ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a Sunday, which began chilly and breezy while the dosimeter displayed its predicted 2.6 millirems and the hotel television explained that the overflow trench for the contaminated reactor would soon itself overflow, we set out for the danger zone once more. As before, I wore my ball cap (a convenient resting place for airborne beta particles), my house-paint-spotted old raincoat (quite inappropriate for appearance-conscious Japan) whose virtues were its hood and its expendability — this magnificent accessory was intended to go over a disposable poncho whose sleeveless armholes I would seal with masking tape around the raincoat’s sleeves; beneath this was an optional sweater of polyester fleece, for the tsunami zone had been chilly; then came my fifteen-year-old long-sleeved shirt (just broken in; a shame to lose it, but anyhow I had worn it before for chemical experiments), and in the breast pocket of this lived my dosimeter; beneath this shirt I wore another lighter one. The idea was to pull on my yellow kitchen gloves at the last moment, taping them around the cuffs with masking tape; then came my old blue jeans and underpants, my grubby socks still soggy with tsunami scum, my late father’s old shoes, disposable shoe covers at the ready — and, of course, my respirator, guaranteed to filter out 99.97 percent of all particulate matter, although, since I had bought it at an American hardware store, the label advised me that misuse might cause injury or death.

I had brought a second set of all the exotic items for the interpreter (who in due course would inherit the dosimeter). Needless to say, the poncho, gloves, masking tape, and shoe covers had not graced my person so far on this adventure; all the other clothes I had been wearing unstintingly, day after day, since I had to suppose that everything I did not store in Tokyo might become contaminated, so why throw away more than I had to? Although I succeeded in showering every day except in Oshima, I doubt that I made a very professional show. The notebook I carried, a scarlet-spined yellow affair emblazoned with a pink-tutued ballerina who curtseyed from beneath a cloud of multicolored butterflies, might have been what tipped the scales, causing policemen to snicker softly the instant my back was turned. Never mind; even in former years, when I had been younger and slimmer and needed to dress up for interviews in my one and only business suit, my best achievement was a look of mild surprise on the interpreter’s face, accompanied by this encomium: “You look almost handsome!”

On last night’s drive to Miyako Oji we had brought with us our yellow kitchen gloves, respirators, et cetera, but the dosimeter persuaded us not to use them. Moreover, we both would have felt ashamed to protect ourselves so ostentatiously without doing likewise for the driver. In my American imaginings of this final visit to the hot zone I had envisioned a walk of some sort, probably on my own; any taxi driver would have stayed inside the vehicle, with the windows cranked up against beta particles. Just in case someone accompanied me, I brought double everything.

Now of course this does not excuse me from having forgotten the safety of any hypothetical third party; never mind the fact that a sane person might well decline to drive anywhere that such accoutrements were advisable; in short, last-minute logic (and decency) prohibited the interpreter and me from setting forth in any such dress, although we did bring them with us just in case.

And so we each wore a medium-quality surgical mask, purchased at a nursing supply store in San Francisco; we offered our new driver, whom I will introduce in a moment, a fresh mask of his own, but he was satisfied with the one he had. I wore my hat, raincoat (unzipped as long as we were in the car), heavy shirt, light shirt, underwear, jeans, socks, and shoes. Upon our return to Koriyama the yellow gloves would go on, the shoes would get wiped down with a damp cloth before permanent removal to a plastic bag, and then pretty much the rest of that day’s clothing, as well as the gloves, also got disposed of in a suitable place — contaminated presents for a contaminated town. The fancy respirators, the backpacks, and all the other usable items we gave away to an evacuee at Big Palette that night, before proceeding to the gymnasium for our radiation screening.

As it turned out, this day’s accrued dose would be no higher than the previous two Koriyama days: 0.4 millirems in twenty-four hours.


 I flatter myself that prudence played a part in this result; I paid attention to wind direction as well as distance, and consulted the dosimeter every few minutes; still, we seem to have had two very lucky days (a statement I intend to retract should I come down with some cesium-characteristic cancer within the next few years). The interpreter later informed me that in the newspapers she had read that the maximum recorded radioactivity suffered by any inhabited place fell forty-odd kilometers north of the reactor: 16,020 microsieverts over twenty-one days, which worked out to seven millirems a day; at that rate it would have taken only sixty-six days to achieve my ceiling of five rems.




First we went to Big Palette. I hoped to find an evacuee who knew how to enter the inner ring without police interference. En route, the driver explained that Koriyama was “the Oriental Vienna,” an appellation I never would have imagined. My tongue was still tingling and stinging from the potassium iodide. The driver said, “Well, we have no direct impact from the reactor, but I don’t like the rumors.”

As soon as we stepped out of the taxi we spied people passing in and out of Big Palette. I stopped a youngish-looking woman who was carrying her granddaughter against her chest. The child and her mother were from Ohkuma, five kilometers from the reactor; the grandmother hailed from Kawauchi Village, right on the edge of the twenty-kilometer inner ring. It was to Kawauchi that we would go today.

The grandmother said, “We had been helping the victims since the twelfth,” the day after the earthquake and tsunami. “On the sixteenth, we ourselves were made to evacuate. It’s like I’m seeing a dream. The life is hard. My daughters are all living very close to the reactor, so they lost everything.”

She did not want to visit Kawauchi just then, and a man who was going there today preferred to organize his things first, so we hired the driver at the head of the long line of taxis that waited there; the driver said we must visit his company’s office first. I spoke against this, expecting as usual to be quashed by some higher-up, but there was nothing to it; his boss came out and inspected us, after which he and the driver worked out a price. I said that the journey might possibly take longer than our agreement arranged for, in which case I could pay more. The driver, unassuming to the point of shyness, appeared uninterested in these details.

We were still in central Koriyama when the meter went to 2.7. “Ehh!” cried the interpreter anxiously. Feeling a trifle nervous myself, I put on my second-best mask, the surgical one I had worn last night; so that now in that department I approximately resembled my two companions as we took Highway 95 toward Ono.

We twisted up through the yellow-green hills, the bamboos shining in the sun, a man working the soil; that wasn’t yet prohibited here, as it already was in Iitate Village, which lay forty kilometers northwest of the plant and hence outside both evacuation zones; it was said that the inhabitants of Iitate would soon have to evacuate.

I found myself checking the dosimeter more often than usual. The driver was silent. My upper lip sweated within the mask. Coming down into Ono, we saw some broken stone along the road edge which might have had nothing to do with the earthquake, and a few specks of snow on the mountainside. It seemed like such a beautiful place to go hill-wandering. The driver pointed out some nara trees (good for growing mushrooms, he said; a few days later, the news screen on the bullet train from Hiroshima to Tokyo announced that mushrooms in a certain zone near the reactor could no longer be harvested, having exceeded the legal radiation limit). Nearly everywhere I looked in Ono there were small, square garden plots where vegetables were coming in, in neat rows, young and green; were they poisonous? The sun was strangely warm on my wrists, or perhaps they were tingling from the potassium iodide. “They are farmers,” the driver remarked with satisfaction; and I knew that he too must have had rural origins.

We swung onto Highway 349, then left onto 36, toward Tomioka, which had been subject to forced evacuation. In the center of Tamura City (a valley paved with tiled houses) there were many lovingly manicured pines, and behind people’s hedges sometimes rose the irregularly phallic boulders so beloved of Japanese gardeners. The convenience stores had not closed. We left Tamura, which was, the driver informed us, a new conglomeration of small villages regathered for certain administrative benefits; I wondered whether the place would remain inhabited. A police car slowly rolled up the hill ahead of us on the quake-cracked road, the cruiser’s lights flashing. Then it turned around. “Maybe he’s too close to the radiation!” laughed the driver, and who can say he was not correct? For this is a story about things we can scarcely believe, let alone understand.

We stopped to chat with an old man in boots and waders and a fishing cap; across his shoulders he bore one of those long poles from which harvested rice is hung to dry. “Sorry,” said the interpreter, “I cannot understand his dialect.” She made out that the rice fields across the road were his; he owned a largish acreage of four tang, or, if you like, 1,200 tsubo. He said that the farmers could not sell their products now.

“Is it safe here?” I inquired.

“They don’t tell us that it’s safe.”

Bowing and thanking him, we returned to the taxi.

Here came a vehicle on the otherwise empty road; our driver asked the old lady at the wheel if we could get to Kawauchi. Politely covering her mouth all the while, she said, “You can go.” The meter remained at 2.7 millirems.

Now we paralleled the river, beyond whose far edge grew many slender-trunked nara trees; apparently they were Japanese oaks. I asked the driver to stop. Greenness was welling up in what had been until not long ago a winter forest. I had a strange, not quite eerie feeling. So beautiful, the green lichens on the boulders! In the cool shade of the cedar trees the ground was so thick with needle-leaves that my steps grew soundless. Sunlight came in low and green on the sides of the trees. An unknown bird whistled its two-toned call over and over. I would have liked to picnic sitting on one of these low fat boulders. Delighting in the cool wind at my back, whose degree of particulate contamination was of course unknown, I strolled across a little bridge toward the pinkish-gray nara trees, beyond which rose another wall of cedars. A stand of young green bamboos was growing beside me. Looking down into the jade stream with its white fans and ribbons of foam emerging from each mossy boulder-islet, I forgot where I was and for a moment removed my mask, which might have been useless anyhow.

We rolled along, and at the side of the road, not long after we had seen some wooden boxes which the driver said were employed for the collection of wild bees, a sandwich-board-type sign unimpressively announced: ENTRY RESTRICTED BY POLICE. And so we came into Kawauchi Village, ten kilometers from the inner ring. The houses were silent. The driver said, “They may have evacuated. This is no good.”

On the hillside just off the road rose a pleasant wooden house. Seeing an old man in wading boots performing some chore, I asked the driver to stop again, and the interpreter and I went out to introduce ourselves to Mr. Sato Yoshimi, who said, “I went to Koriyama to evacuate, but just returned today.”

“Why did you return?”

“I’ve been there at Big Palette for about a month, and I just had to look at my house. I’ll go back to Big Palette today.”

“What made you choose to move there?”

“People here were told, If you’re within twenty kilometers, you have to evacuate. If you’re within thirty kilometers, you might want to. So, to be on the safe side, this village was specified for evacuation.”

I did not completely understand this; but who precisely had specified the evacuation, and how voluntary it was, might not be something the broken-toothed old man cared to spell out. His white mask hung down between chin and neck.

“How did you experience the earthquake?”

“I was at the site,” he answered. “I was working at the Number Four Turbine. I’ve been working at the reactor for more than thirty years.”

“Was it a good job?”

“Well, before the accident I enjoyed it. You never imagined. .”

“And then what happened?”

“It was about 2:30. Within the building the tremor was terrible, and the lights started to fall. Lots of sand and dust — you couldn’t see where you were going. I was within the controlled area, where you have to wear protective gear specified by Tepco, and you have your own dosimeter.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I left it in the reactor building.”

“Did you see the tsunami?”

“I immediately evacuated before it came. From the Number Four building I went on foot with my colleagues. There was lots of water leaking from pipes, since the ground had sunk. You work in a team — six people. All of us evacuated together. There is an office four kilometers from there. We checked in there. When everyone had arrived, we were told to go wherever on our own responsibility.”

His employer was a subcontractor of Tepco, called Nito Resin. They were still paying him, he said; he had received last month’s salary.

“How long do you suppose you’ll be living at Big Palette?”

“I don’t know. It depends on the radiation here. Unless the restriction is lifted, I don’t think I can come back. Here it’s pretty low, 0.5 or 0.6 millisieverts.


 My daughter is within the twenty-kilometer limit. So she and her mother went to see their home.


 I think they can enter for a short time.”

A brown creek flowed beneath the cypresses at the edge of his steep lot. Across the road lay his garden: daikons, green onions, cabbage, long beans. I wish I could tell you whether anyone ought to have eaten what he was growing.

Bowing our goodbyes to him, we continued on down the road, while he, bending painfully there in the driveway, slowly returned to watering a plant with his turquoise plastic pitcher, while a young child cried inside his house, my dosimeter still pleasantly at 2.7. When we reached the fork we took the right-hand turn as he had advised, while the driver said, “Normally, reactor workers die at an early age, so I’m surprised, frankly, that he’s still alive. One of my friends was working there, and he wanted to retire. He opened a noodle shop and died very soon.”

“How old was he?”

“Forty-something.”

“Was it cancer?”

“I don’t know the details.”

This anecdote said more about the driver than it did about the reactor, or nuclear power. Anyhow, one person is a small sample. Passing more dry rice fields, my forehead burning and itching, perhaps from an insect bite, we passed two dogs running loose outside the Kawauchi municipal office and reached the inner ring, where a line of police stood in their blue vests with reflective yellow stripes, their white masks covering from their chins to the bridges of their noses and their white hats firm and straight over their eyes, their white-gloved hands open at their sides and their boots shining. They prohibited us from going further, so I had the taxi driver turn right and park a block away, on a street where locals drove in and out of an unmanned checkpoint as they pleased, lifting the flimsy barrier aside. These people were always in a hurry. Whenever the interpreter and I waved them down, they would always say, in violation of their famous Tohoku politeness, “No time!” Invariably, they were headed for Big Palette.

I strolled into the forbidden zone, just so I could say I had done it. The interpreter took a cautious step or two behind me, then stopped. The driver sat with the windows rolled up. Every time I looked at him, he anxiously started his engine. Should I have insisted that he continue into the involuntary evacuation zone? My dosimeter had not registered any recent increase; regarding gamma rays the situation seemed safe enough, and perhaps this story would have been more dramatic had I been pushier, but then again perhaps not, for what would we have seen but more empty houses, and then quake and tsunami damage, and then the reactor, which drone photographs in the newspaper made clear resembled any number of muddy construction sites? I think the driver would have done it if I had asked; as for my loyal, courageous interpreter, she said simply, “I will follow you.” Perhaps she and I should have suited up with respirators, yellow kitchen gloves, and all the rest of it, and then walked toward Plant Number One. Honestly, I lacked the ruthlessness to ask it of her. Or I could have set out by myself, leaving the two of them to wait for me there. Why didn’t I do that? Perhaps I was afraid and didn’t admit it to myself; but I believe I simply couldn’t see the point.

The birds were singing, the plants were growing, and the trees were coming into flower. It was very warm now. Moss grew on a wall, and in the deserted houses the curtains were all drawn. If you can, try to see those curtained houses and the shadows on their silver-ringed roof tiles, the blue flowers in someone’s backyard, which like the other lawns there still appeared decently trimmed, probably due to the coolness of the season. At the side of another house, a few potted houseplants had begun to wither, but the others still looked perfect. Perhaps more people had returned home from Big Palette than was generally imagined.

Behind an outer door, an inner sliding partition was wide open. We called and called, but no one answered. I informed the checkpoint police, since last night’s taxi driver had remarked that burglars had begun to take advantage of the evacuation.

In the shade of an old wooden house, several bicycles leaned neatly beside clean shovels. A line of sandbags, perhaps tsunami protection, followed the house around the corner.

What is there to say about this place, morning-shadowed and birdsonged, the meter at 2.7 millirems, the shadows of power wires gently dancing across the ribbed concrete facade of a workshop, a small black beetle crawling on a sandbag?

From the main checkpoint a bus emerged, then a truck, then three cars, the police waving them all through with their white-gloved hands before they reclosed the barrier and these vehicles all headed back in the direction of Koriyama. Then a man on a motorcycle approached them from our side.

“Unless your purpose is very strong I cannot allow you,” a policeman told him.

“But I have a brother inside. Can I go another way?”

“You may be able to advance and go a little farther,” said the policeman.

So the motorcyclist proceeded to the unmanned checkpoint that the interpreter and I had breached. Later the taxi driver, who had spoken with him, remarked that this fellow had complained of a burning, tingling sensation, which of course is one of the first symptoms of massive radiation exposure. Perhaps it was psychosomatic, or he had some sort of allergic reaction; nobody we asked in Koriyama, even at Big Palette, had heard of anybody getting radiation sickness.

Then the driver summoned us. He had discovered an actual inhabitant: bearded and graying, with a very red workingman’s face, in a blue slicker and cap; he must have been about fifty. He wore green gloves and a mask and green boots. The metal grating of the Showa Shell service station was only half raised. He stooped just outside, hosing down a patch of pavement. He worked unceasingly while he spoke with us. He would not allow us into his house next door, in whose second-story window the drapes parted for an instant and a lovely feminine hand flickered, folding a towel over the curtain rod; this wife or daughter must have been doing laundry indoors. The drapes closed again. The workingman said, “This is the stay-at-home area. This is my area. We’ll leave soon. There’s a cat we left to stay inside, and we felt so sad not to let it out. I’m the head of the fire department here, so I come back every day, and every day I check the radiation level at the village office. Today is 0.38 millisieverts. On the seventeenth, everyone evacuated. .”


He worked on, never stopping until I made him a present of my best respirator, at which point he paused to bow deeply, then hurried back to work.

With the cool wind still at my back and the sound of the brook louder than almost anything else, I inspected a very young bird on the grass, rust on a guardrail, manicured pines, then gazed over blank empty pavement. I went up one more driveway and rang the bell. The chimes echoed on and on; the door was locked.

For some reason, what I remember most is the bicycles leaning neatly up against the empty houses that shaded them.

Every time I looked at him, the driver eagerly started the engine. He reminded me of the forlorn boy who must stand on the snowy sidewalk just outside the hot springs near Sendai, ready to bow if any guest comes in. Finally I asked how he was. “I’m not really concerned,” he said, “but somehow I feel uneasy.”

“What makes you the most uneasy?”

“I see the cars but no people.”

Taking pity on him, I told him to commence our return, driving very slowly down the smooth pavement to the fork of highways 399 and 36, and then as the road began to rise back up into the hills, but long before we reached Mr. Sato’s home, I made the driver stop again, for I now perceived one more chance to accomplish my journalistic vulture-swoop, for here again was human life — namely, a middle-aged couple wearing those nearly useless paper masks over their mouths and striding out of their house and down the gravel driveway to their separate cars. I rushed to halt them, and the interpreter bowed with her best politeness, requesting the favor of five minutes, just five minutes, but the wife said, “We don’t have time. This is the first occasion that we have checked our home since we evacuated to Tochigi.” “How long ago was that?” Shedding all remnants of that celebrated Tohoku patience and politeness, she cried, “We don’t have time; we don’t have time!”—at which they ran into their cars without bowing goodbye, the man sweating around his mask, and drove off at nearly reckless speed, up Highway 399 toward Koriyama and then Tochigi.

The driver remarked that they seemed afraid.

Reascending Highway 399, terraces and plum blossoms, my wrists stinging strangely, no doubt simply from sunburn or that potassium iodide, we proceeded toward Koriyama; now we descended the mountainside, a brown stream glinting white in the sun, at which time the dosimeter reading increased to 2.8 millirems. I said nothing. Looking into the rearview mirror, I saw the sad bewildered fear in the driver’s eyes.

“My eyes have been pretty watery for the last two or three days,” he said. “Is it related to the radiation?”

This gentle, stolid rule-follower, who had been born in a traditional thatched-roof house and who was proud of his eighty-six-year-old mother’s health, who had prepared the receipt for me in advance and therefore firmly refused payment for the extra two hours that my loitering had required — never mind the hazardous-duty bonus I tried to give him (he did take a fraction of it) — he struck me as one of those innocents so useful to authority everywhere. I asked him whether he knew what radiation was, and he said, “I don’t know. Does it evaporate? Is it a liquid?”

“Should Tepco be punished?” I inquired.

“It was the government’s policy,” he said loyally. “They did it for the nation.”




IV: CHERRY BLOSSOMS







Kawauchi police guarding the entrance to the inner ring. Photo by William T. Vollmann.

ON THE DAY I ARRIVED IN HIROSHIMA, the Ministry of Energy classified the reactor accident as a Level Seven, as bad as Chernobyl. One agency said 370,000 terrabecquerels had been released so far. Another said 630,000 terrabecquerels.


 I figured that nobody knew and everybody lied.

I asked the wide-faced taxi driver who was taking me to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum which he considered worse, the reactor accident or the detonation of the atom bomb over his city. He replied, “Of course, the nuclear bomb! It instantly killed more than two hundred thousand people!”

(A wall display at the museum stated that 140,000 died by the end of 1945.)

I mentioned that the Tohoku people appeared to know or care little about what happened at Hiroshima, to which he replied in his reedy voice, “Of course. More foreigners visit the museum than Japanese. At that time, I was three years old. One day before, we were ordered to evacuate because Hiroshima was a military capital and in danger.” He laughed, quite cynically and bitterly, I thought. His mother took him to the countryside, but on the day after Little Boy was dropped she returned to Hiroshima to look after relatives, which was why she — lucky woman! — became eligible for atomic victim status. “She showed no symptoms, but when I was fourteen she got recognition. Myself, if you have that hibakusha health book, if you’re a victim, that means that no one wants to marry you, so I didn’t want to get one.”

He went on: “Those who used to live close to the dome”—the hypocenter of the explosion—“they hide it, since they are discriminated against.”

“How many years did it take for the radioactivity to go away?”

“For that I’m not sure, but in 1945 they said that for fifty years no plants would grow, and soon weeds came.”

“Do you think that the reactor accident at Fukushima could affect people here?”

“I think it’s rather irrelevant to me. I won’t be affected. You’re going to the museum, and you’ll see that the atomic bomb gives you burns and hair loss,” he explained wisely, and so we pulled up there, on the edge of the Hongkawa River, among the pinkish-white clouds of cherry blossoms.

Visiting the museum, my heart grew as brown-gray as a salinized rice field. The torn, stained rags of the summer uniform and chemise that the thirteen-year-old schoolgirl Oshita Nobuko had sewn herself, oh, yes, these flattened, faded, bloody tokens, weren’t those enough to see? Just as one can find on display at that museum a lightbulb painted black except for a neat ring of transparency at the base, in order to decrease, however slightly, the probability that the Allied bombers could locate nighttime targets, so I could see of various radioactive issues, matters, and agendas what little there was to see. And I have told you what I saw. What did I see? What did I know?

At Hiroshima my dosimeter registered 0.2 millirems per twenty-four hours — twice Tokyo’s background. At first I thought I had found some artifact of the bomb, but an American dosimetrist later remarked that this reading probably fell within the preatomic norm for that area.

On the bench across from the ruined Fuel Hall with its atomic dome within, a pigtailed child sat upon her young mother’s lap, giggling and rubbing noses with her, the blue sky glaring through the blank window holes in the brick.

Then the petals began to rain down, losing themselves upon the whiteness of the granite flagstones, floating down onto the long dark hair of two young women who sat drinking coffee together, turning their faces toward each other.




ENDNOTES


1 Jill Meryl Levy, The First Responder’s Guide to Radiation Incidents (Campbell, California: Firebelle Productions, 2006), 120.

2 Farrington Daniels and Robert A. Alberty, Physical Chemistry, 3rd ed. (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1966) 695.

3 Ibid., 719. “According to AEC regulations, no worker should be exposed to more than 5 roentgens per year.”

4 Levy, 153, 46–48, 93–96. In the text the normal background exposure is expressed in mR (milliroentgens). For our purposes, a rem ("roentgen exposure man," a measure of biological damage) equals a roentgen.

5 Levy.

6 A chest X-ray is 0.0001 sievert. One sievert is 100 rems, or 100,000 millirems.

7 The Daily Yomiuri, no. 21,742 (April 5, 2011, edition T), 1.

8 The Japan Times, March 27, 2011, 2 (map: “Maximum radiation levels in eastern Japan: Data from 5 p.m. Friday to 5 p.m. Saturday”).

9 The Japan Times, March 27, 2011, 2 (“Radioactive water stymies crews”).

10 The Japan Times, April 3, 2011, 1 (Masami Ito and Minoru Matsutani, “Sea contamination traced to cracked storage pit connected to reactor: Tepco dumps concrete to plug radiation leak at No. 2”).

11 All distances given in the text are to the poisonous Plant Number One. Tokyo distance is measured somewhat randomly from the large and central Setagawa Ward. The (spuriously) exact distances are 232 kilometers to Plant Number One and 222 kilometers to Plant Number Two.

12 Following Japanese convention, in this essay I give people’s family names first.

13 In other words, the ground moved not up and down but from side to side — perfect conditions for a tsunami.

14 It was actually farther away.

15 In Chiba Prefecture, near Tokyo.

16 “Additionally, in open air bath, we set a rule saying that is mixed bathing and strictly refuse you from wrapping bath towel around yourself.”

17 The Daily Yomiuri, no. 21,742 (April 5, 2011, edition T), 1.

18 The Teachings of Buddha, 1029th rev. ed. (Tokyo: Bukkyo Dendo Kyoki [Society for the Promotion of Buddhism], 2000), 198 (Defilements, 6).

19 1869–1912.

20 At the time of the interview, this would have amounted to about U.S. $625.

21 His mother said that facilities permitted only twenty bodies per day to be burned in the entire city.

22 The interpreter said “accumulation,” but this must be the meaning.

23 See the “Jewels in the Darkness” chapter of my Kissing the Mask (New York: Ecco, 2010).

24 Another translation comment: In Japanese the pronouns may sometimes be left implied. The literal translation here was the sentence fragment “the fire so vividly seen from my hill.” Here and throughout I have emended the raw translations in such ways as this. My interpreter has seen and approved the final manuscript.

25 Shinichi Otsuka, gen. ed., Yamahata Yosuke (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, Nihon no Shashinka 6 [Japanese Photographers ser., vol. 6], 1998), plate 12.

26 A more exact term would be “ruined house foundations which now resembled broken-walled fields.”

27 Hiroshi Kitagawa and Bruce T. Tsuchida, trans., The Tale of the Heike (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1977 paperback reprint of 1975 ed.; author unknown, provenance 13th cent.), vol. 1, 5.

28 Onigiri.

29 Probably daikon.

30 The Yomiuri Shimbun, April, 9, 2100, 1. The Koriyama figure at 6:00 p.m. (taken the previous day, obviously) was 1.98 microsieverts per hour, which works out to 47.52 microsieverts per day, or 4.75 millirems per day — eleven times higher than my reading. I cannot in good conscience match any of my recorded values against any corresponding newspaper value, because on none of my three Koriyama-related days did I spend a straight twenty-four hours in that city. The dosimeter’s minimum turnover of 0.1 is so high in relation to the thankfully moderate daily radiation doses I encountered that there remains a huge margin of error. My attempts to calculate some provisional constant for each place visited were accordingly frustrated (except Tokyo: 1/10 mrem per day x 1/24 day per hour = 1/240 mrem per hour). For instance, my approximate figure for Sendai of 0.012 millirems per hour, based on time averaging from April 6 to 7, is surely depressed by time spent at the hot springs up in the mountains. The calculation of 0.1127 millirems per hour for Kesennuma and Oshima, based on seventeen hours on April 8, cannot be verified on the morning of the 9th, since radiation there cannot really be differentiated from radiation between there and Ohira, and between Ohira and Koriyama. Had the situation lent itself to more precise measurements, our radiation exposure would have been, let’s say, an order of magnitude higher.

31 One source thought my 0.4 millirems per day “a very reasonable assumption.” He said that as much as 0.2 millirems might be normal background for that area. He did not say that he knew this to be a fact, and I would imagine, given his nuclear reactor background, that he might tend toward optimistic characterizations in this regard.

32 If the Yomiuri Shimbun's figure is correct and consistent, then about three years would suffice to reach that same nasty 5-rem dose.

33 The most common fish is (or was) flatfish.

34 Six hundred sieverts would be about a hundred times the lethal dose. A chest X-ray is 0.001 sievert.

35 In the short run, at least, Koriyama’s readings held consistent. Half of the following day was spent in reaching Tokyo; hence, as arithmetic might predict, that day gave me merely twice the Tokyo baseline, or 0.2 millirems.

36 This was Iitate Village, mentioned below. A different (one-time) statistic gave Iitate’s dose as 9.13 microsieverts per hour, which works out to 21.9 millirems per day, so that the five rems would be reached in 228 days. See The Japan Times, March 27, 2011, 2 (map: “Maximum radiation levels in eastern Japan: Data from 5 p.m. Friday to 5 p.m. Saturday”).

37 Per hour. This would be about 1.4 millirems per day, or about four times what my dosimeter was reporting for Koriyama. At this rate, a resident of Kawauchi would have accrued five rems in about nine years and nine months.

38 My interpolation. He actually said, “So they went to see.”

39 Per hour, presumably. This would be 0.91 millirems per day — a bit less than Mr. Sato’s figure. If this held stable over time, more than 15 years would be needed to accrue 5 rems.

40 Chogoku Shimbun, April 11, 2011, front page.






The author getting radiation screening in Koriyama following his second visit to the hot zone.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


William T. Vollmann is the author of nine novels, including Europe Central, winner of the National Book Award. He has also written three collections of stories, a memoir, and five works of nonfiction, including, most recently, Imperial and Kissing the Mask: Beauty, Understatement, and Femininity in Japanese Noh Theater. His epic treatise on violence, Rising Up and Rising Down, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. He is the recipient of the Whiting Writers Award, the PEN Center USA West Award, and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.




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