Assignment #11(A)

"Was he, seven years later, in Hiroshima, still so happy-go-lucky? His daughter Chieko’s husband thought not. The son-in-law thought he saw signs of a growing stubbornness and rigidity in him, and a turn toward melancholy. So that Dr. Fujii could ease up in his work, his third son, Shigeyuki, gave up his practice in Tokyo and came to be his assistant, moving into a house that his father had built on a pilot of ground about a block from the clinic. One cloud in the father’s life was a quarrel in the Hiroshima Lions Club, of which he was president. The fight was over whether the club should try, through its admissions policy, to become an exclusive, high-society organization, like some of the Japanese doctors’ associations, or remain essentially a service organization, open to all. When it appeared that Dr. Fujii might lose out in his fight for the latter view, he abruptly and disappointedly resigned." (Hersey, 1988, pp. 168-169)

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Assignment #11(B)

“In 1966, Father Takakura had to change cooks. A woman named Satsue Yoshiki, who was thirty-five years old, recently cured of tuberculosis, and recently baptized, had been told to report for an interview at the Mukaihara church. Having been given the Japanese name of the priest, she was astonished to be greeted by a big gaijin, a foreigner, dressed in a quilted Japanese gown. His face, which was rounded out and puffy (doubtless from medication), struck her as that of a baby. At once, indeed, there commenced a relationship, soon to blossom into one of complete mutual trust, in which her role seemed to be ambiguous: part daughter, part mother. His growing helplessness kept her in subjugation; she tenderly nursed him. Her cooking was primitive, his temper cranky. He had said he would eat anything, even Japanese noodles, but he was sharp with her about his food, as he had never been with anyone else. Once, he spoke of “strained baked potatoes” his real mother had cooked. She tried to make them. He said, “These are not like my mother’s.” He loved fried prawns and ate them when he went to Hiroshima for checkups. She tried to cook them. He said, “These are burned.” She stood beside him in the tiny room, her hands behind her gripping the doorjamb so tightly that in time its paint was all worn away. Yet he praised her, confined in her, joked with her, apologized to her each time he lost his temper. She thought him—under the shortness, which she attributed to pain—gentle, pure, patient, sweet, humorous, and deeply kind.” (Hersey, 1988, pp. 149-150)

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