Photo/Illutration Rui Hiratomi, in bed, speaks with his son, Kinya, about her experiences as a hibakusha in Uto, Kumamoto Prefecture, in May. (Masaru Komiyaji)

Editor’s note: This is part of a series on hibakusha who responded to a survey by The Asahi Shimbun, The Chugoku Shimbun and The Nagasaki Shimbun on the 80th anniversary of the atomic bombings.

UTO, Kumamoto Prefecture--Even a half-century later, Kinya Hiratomi vividly remembers his mother’s angry face, her sorrowful eyes and her strong grip on his arm.

About 50 years ago, as dusk fell and they were passing through Nagasaki Peace Park, they overheard a family of tourists speaking loudly enough for those around to hear.

“You would not want to marry a woman from Nagasaki,” one said, apparently alluding to the atomic bombing of the city.

Kinya turned around, ready to confront them, but his mother, Rui, held him back.

“It is no use,” she said. “Just let it go.”

Kinya, a first-year junior high school student at the time, was unable to respond to his mother, a hibakusha, who was staring straight ahead beside him.

The memory remains etched in his mind.

In a nationwide survey of atomic bomb survivors, Rui said, “I believe I have been diagnosed with dementia, but I want to tell (my experiences) before I forget.”

Kinya, who wrote down her words as she spoke, said her mother can still recall and talk about her wartime memories as long as her health allows.

However, she was unable to share her stories with a visitor at her nursing home in Uto, Kumamoto Prefecture, in May.

“I have already forgotten,” said Rui, lying in her bed. “I am turning 100 next month, you know.”

Kinya, 65, her eldest son, said it has been nearly five years since she was diagnosed with dementia.

Rui grew up in Isahaya, Nagasaki Prefecture. After graduating from what was then Isahaya Girls’ High School, she became a clerk at Isahaya Station of the former Japanese National Railways.

She was at work as usual on Aug. 9, 1945, when Nagasaki was destroyed by a U.S. atomic bomb.

Once Kinya was old enough to understand, Rui would occasionally talk about the grim events of that day.

Isahaya Station became a “scene from hell” immediately after the atomic bomb was dropped.

Relief trains packed with injured people arrived one after another from Nagasaki.

Rui took part in rescue efforts, helping unload the wounded from the train cars.

“Help me.” “Give me water.”

Hearing these pleas over and over again, Rui continued operating a pulley system at the station to lift and lower injured people.

Amid the heat of the crowds and the stench of blood, she worked tirelessly for three days and nights.

Rui’s story always ended there.

Whenever the conversation turned to those severely wounded, the memories became too painful, and she would stop.

After the war, Rui kept silent about what she had witnessed that day.

She was exposed to radiation while assisting relief efforts at Isahaya Station, but she never told anyone outside her family. She feared that her children would face discrimination.

“No one must know until my daughter is married,” she said.

At her nursing home, Rui repeatedly waved goodbye to her visitor at the end of his approximately 20-minute visit.

“Thank you for coming all the way,” she said. “It brings tears to my eyes.”

The following day, Kinya expressed gratitude for the interview and apologized that his mother had not been able to speak well.

“This may be biased coming from her son, but she is a strong-minded woman,” he wrote in an email.

Rui’s survey responses were thorough, with nearly 30 questions answered in full.

She said, “I want to tell (my experiences) before I forget,” as Kinya jotted down her words.

When he showed her the completed survey, Rui said, “I have to leave behind my memories.”

Kinya decided to join the activities of the Kumamoto prefectural association of children and grandchildren of hibakusha this year.

“I feel like it is now or never,” he said. “Only family members can convey how she truly feels.”

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