That day and the food 79 years ago, Part 1: Hiroshi Harada, 85, former director of Peace Museum, resident of Hiroshima’s Asaminami Ward, ‘the peach I just couldn’t give up’
Aug. 5, 2024
by Yumie Kubo, Staff Writer
Seventy-nine years have passed since that day, August 6, when the simple lives of people were stolen away. In addition to the devastation of the city after the bombing and the many difficult days after the war, some food from that time is unforgettable. This article series looks into the experiences of that time etched in the hearts and minds of A-bomb survivors as well as their memories of food.
I have shared my account of experiences in the atomic bombing with many people in Japan and overseas, including young people, the late writer Kenzaburo Oe, and then-Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori. About the dead bodies I saw piled up in the scorched ruins and about the foul stench that hung in the air, among others. I have conveyed my horrific experiences in detail. But there is one thing I never told anyone and kept deep inside of me. It is a scar that remains in my heart to this day. That memory is of a peach I held tightly in my hand as I escaped from the inferno that day.
On August 6, 1945, I was six years old. Early that morning, I was at Hiroshima Station with my parents waiting to be evacuated to present-day Higashihiroshima City. While we were waiting for the train, my father gave me a peach.
The only fruit I had eaten before were some dried bananas and persimmons with no sweetness. I have no idea how my father got his hands on that precious peach. I wonder if he obtained it to cheer me up before the evacuation.
That was the first peach I had ever seen. I was as excited as if I had received a once-in-a-lifetime treasure. Then, suddenly, everything in front of me turned white. The ceiling and walls of the station building collapsed due to the blast from the atomic bombing, and I was trapped under the rubble. I survived because my father, who suffered severe wounds to his back, had covered and protected me. The white clothing he was wearing was stained with blood.
“Run away, quick.” I heard screams all around me. Flames were approaching. My father and I ran frantically, with me tightly holding on to the peach in my hand.
Escaping the fires, we continued walking through incinerated ruins where countless dead bodies and wounded people were lying here and there. Amidst all this, I heard a faint voice. Looking back, I saw a woman with badly burned skin. She was staring at the peach in my hand. “Please give your peach to these children.” I saw two young children slumping against the seated woman.
She pleaded with me over and over, but I couldn’t give up my precious peach. And yet, I also couldn’t turn a blind eye to those who appeared to be on the verge of death. I think I struggled with that even though I was only six. In the end, however, I just couldn’t bring myself to give the peach to them.
I don’t remember whether I ate the peach afterwards or what I did with it. But the sight of that woman and the guilt of not being able to give her my peach has remained heavy in my heart ever since.
After graduating from university, I served as a Hiroshima City government official before assuming the post as director of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, located in the city’s Naka Ward, in 1993. Even as I understood the serious responsibility and significance of testimonies about the atomic bombings, I was unable to talk for years to anybody about my memory of the peach. I struggled to confront the reality that I could do nothing for that mother and her children or save them. That’s why I wanted to keep the memory inside of me all this time.
In 2018, I participated in a project in which A-bomb survivors shared their experiences with students at Motomachi High School, in Hiroshima’s Naka Ward, and had them draw pictures. While asking myself what scene I could have them draw, I came upon the memory of the peach. Even now, 79 years later, the desperate eyes of that woman come back to haunt me whenever I see a peach. I still also clearly remember the feeling of my feet stepping on innumerable dead bodies.
I rarely talk about my memory of the peach now. Thinking quietly about the woman and her children, I have to believe they also experienced happy times.
(Originally published on August 5, 2024)
Seventy-nine years have passed since that day, August 6, when the simple lives of people were stolen away. In addition to the devastation of the city after the bombing and the many difficult days after the war, some food from that time is unforgettable. This article series looks into the experiences of that time etched in the hearts and minds of A-bomb survivors as well as their memories of food.
Memory kept deep inside
Woman’s desperate pleas still remembered to this day
I have shared my account of experiences in the atomic bombing with many people in Japan and overseas, including young people, the late writer Kenzaburo Oe, and then-Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori. About the dead bodies I saw piled up in the scorched ruins and about the foul stench that hung in the air, among others. I have conveyed my horrific experiences in detail. But there is one thing I never told anyone and kept deep inside of me. It is a scar that remains in my heart to this day. That memory is of a peach I held tightly in my hand as I escaped from the inferno that day.
On August 6, 1945, I was six years old. Early that morning, I was at Hiroshima Station with my parents waiting to be evacuated to present-day Higashihiroshima City. While we were waiting for the train, my father gave me a peach.
The only fruit I had eaten before were some dried bananas and persimmons with no sweetness. I have no idea how my father got his hands on that precious peach. I wonder if he obtained it to cheer me up before the evacuation.
That was the first peach I had ever seen. I was as excited as if I had received a once-in-a-lifetime treasure. Then, suddenly, everything in front of me turned white. The ceiling and walls of the station building collapsed due to the blast from the atomic bombing, and I was trapped under the rubble. I survived because my father, who suffered severe wounds to his back, had covered and protected me. The white clothing he was wearing was stained with blood.
“Run away, quick.” I heard screams all around me. Flames were approaching. My father and I ran frantically, with me tightly holding on to the peach in my hand.
Escaping the fires, we continued walking through incinerated ruins where countless dead bodies and wounded people were lying here and there. Amidst all this, I heard a faint voice. Looking back, I saw a woman with badly burned skin. She was staring at the peach in my hand. “Please give your peach to these children.” I saw two young children slumping against the seated woman.
She pleaded with me over and over, but I couldn’t give up my precious peach. And yet, I also couldn’t turn a blind eye to those who appeared to be on the verge of death. I think I struggled with that even though I was only six. In the end, however, I just couldn’t bring myself to give the peach to them.
I don’t remember whether I ate the peach afterwards or what I did with it. But the sight of that woman and the guilt of not being able to give her my peach has remained heavy in my heart ever since.
After graduating from university, I served as a Hiroshima City government official before assuming the post as director of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, located in the city’s Naka Ward, in 1993. Even as I understood the serious responsibility and significance of testimonies about the atomic bombings, I was unable to talk for years to anybody about my memory of the peach. I struggled to confront the reality that I could do nothing for that mother and her children or save them. That’s why I wanted to keep the memory inside of me all this time.
In 2018, I participated in a project in which A-bomb survivors shared their experiences with students at Motomachi High School, in Hiroshima’s Naka Ward, and had them draw pictures. While asking myself what scene I could have them draw, I came upon the memory of the peach. Even now, 79 years later, the desperate eyes of that woman come back to haunt me whenever I see a peach. I still also clearly remember the feeling of my feet stepping on innumerable dead bodies.
I rarely talk about my memory of the peach now. Thinking quietly about the woman and her children, I have to believe they also experienced happy times.
(Originally published on August 5, 2024)
