One Finger
“Hold it tight, okay?” the man who had introduced himself as Ibuki glanced up at Sasaki from where he was kneeling, motioning Sasaki to join him on the ground. “And make sure it doesn’t lean, see?” The man demonstrated, letting the large tape measure list to one side. “We need it to be the same distance on all sides or it won’t work. Also, watch to make sure that…”
The man continued but Sasaki’s attention had drifted. He stared past the man’s shoulder and eyed the naked metal beams of the empty Genbaku Dome. All around him people were hustling about. Working in teams, measuring off distances, bringing in equipment, consulting each other or blueprints or both. The plan was insanely ambitious. They were going to re-create the dropping of the Atomic Bomb. In a lightshow.
“Understand?” Sasaki heard the man say.
“No problem,” Sasaki murmured back, placing his fingers where the man had indicated.
The man stood, took the end of the tape in his hand and began to walk away, mumbling. Sasaki heard the word ‘strange’ and had no doubt it was about him.
But he didn’t care.
He’d been told how lucky he was to have been chosen to take part in this event. How it was an honour, especially for someone so young. That this was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime experience that he would never forget.
But he already wished he could.
His eyes stared without really seeing into the rubble all around the bottom of the Dome. Debris left as it had fallen to serve as a reminder of what happened that fateful day. He gazed at the lifeless lumps of brick and heard his grandfather’s voice play in his head.
“Just one finger.”
Sasaki’s grandfather was a most captivating storyteller. Sasaki remembered well the time his grandfather first brought him and his two cousins to Hiroshima as kids. They stood next to the Dome as he’d told the three of them about the dropping of the bomb with such detail, it gave all of them nightmares for the rest of the summer. Years later, when an aunt confided to Sasaki that her father hadn’t even been alive at the time of the bombing, Sasaki didn’t believe her. “He must have been!” Sasaki had argued back. “The way he talks about it, it’s like he’s lived it over and over in his mind.”
His aunt was right of course and even showed Sasaki the papers to prove it. His grandfather hadn’t been born until 1948.
“Why did you lie?” Sasaki had asked his grandfather after the encounter with his aunt.
“Lie?” His grandfather had countered, genuinely confused at the accusation. “I did no such thing. I told you the story of what happened. I never said it was my story.”
Sasaki snapped back from his memories as he heard the click of the tape measure approaching its end. He blinked, surprised to find tears in his eyes. He quickly brushed them away and looked at the numbers sliding past. He raised the small walkie-talkie to his mouth and reported they were at 25 meters.
“Good,” he heard the man who called himself Ibuki reply. “Just wait there for now.”
Sasaki stood and leaned against the low handrail on the edge of the river running parallel to the Dome. The hulk of the building was beginning to cast a shadow across the path where he stood. Its dark outline crept towards Sasaki’s shoes slowly, as if it wanted to chase him away.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Sasaki thought looking back up at the skeleton of what was once a great structure.
“One finger,” he heard his grandfather’s voice explain. “That’s all it took to release the bomb. Just one finger to make thousands die. To make the air burn. To make the river turn to acid.”
It was these words that Sasaki had used in an essay contest earlier this year. He’d captured the way his grandfather brought the horror of that day to life and submitted it, titled dryly ‘Why Today’s Generations Cannot Forget’. The prize for the winning essay was the chance to be here today. To help take part in the 75th year anniversary lightshow re-enactment.
And here he was.
Hating himself for it.
The walkie-talkie crackled softly in Sasaki’s hand. “Okay, roll the tape up,” the voice that belonged to Ibuki said.
It was the same voice which had greeted Sasaki when he’d emerged from the platform of the train. The warm tone that had welcomed him, commending him for his interest in the tragedies of the past. The voice that had introduced him to the gathering of all the workers this morning as a beacon of hope that the pain of Hiroshima was not lost on the youth of Japan. That had later confided in him that almost everyone at this event had direct blood relatives who had been victims of the bombing.
Sasaki’s stomach twisted as he remembered.
“Really?” he had asked, a rising lump of panic in his throat.
“Yes,” the kind voice of Ibuki had responded. “Many of them grew up hearing the stories of the pain and suffering of that day. Much as you must have, with your grandfather I should think.” Ibuki had smiled at him and continued, “I read your essay, Sasaki. Your grandfather must be very proud.”
Sasaki had thought the same, of course. He’d made a special trip to see his grandfather, to tell him the news. To show him the essay. To win his praise.
Sasaki dropped back to his knees and began to wind the tape measure in, fighting back tears.
“You simple-minded fool,” Sasaki heard his grandfather say again. “You hear a story like that and identify yourself a victim?”
The summer wind blew through the Dome and pushed against Sasaki’s wet face.
“I tell that story because I dream that I was the one who dropped the bomb.”
Contest details:
Contest: NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2015, Round 1, Challenge 1
Genre: Drama
Location: A war memorial
Object: A tape measure
Score: 13 points