A Life Beyond Measure

Remembering my maternal aunt, a gentle soul of infinite strength

My aunt Nobuko died this past week in Japan at the age of 101. There were no doctors hovering over her, no beeping machines, and no fluorescent hospital lights. She died at home in her own bed and surrounded by family, including her daughter and oldest granddaughter. Days before her death, her health had begun to deteriorate and she slept most of the day. At one point she asked for her favorite dessert, Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream, which ended up being her last meal.

Aunt Nobuko was the oldest daughter of five children born to Toku and Shunpei Kato. My two uncles, Hiroshi and Makoto, died in 1985 and 2006, and another aunt, Kiyoko, died in 2021 at the age of 93. Aunt Hisako, a daughter from my grandfather’s first marriage—he became a young widower after his wife died in childbirth—also lived a long life. The youngest of her brothers and sisters, my mother is now the sole remaining sibling.

Growing up, I had heard a lot about Aunt Nobuko. I knew, for instance, that she was a prolific letter writer. My mother still has a box full of light-blue Japanese aerogrammes—handwritten missives from her sister, whom she called Nobuchan, and a poignant legacy of their decades-long correspondence.

I finally met Aunt Nobuko during my first trip to the sisters’ childhood home in Tamagawa, Japan, in 1983. She exuded a quiet, dignified strength and spoke with a soft, pure voice, emphasizing each word with a distinctive lilt. I had basic proficiency in conversational Japanese at the time, so we could enjoy a simple conversation. Despite her delicate face and small build, she had strong arms that could carry heavy bags filled with groceries or presents for family. She never went anywhere empty-handed. And she never seemed to hurry.

During my three-month stay in Tamagawa, I bought a Kokutetsu, or rail pass. I wanted to test my language skills and explore other parts of Japan on my own terms. I planned to spend a few weeks traveling to cities in Honshu and Kyushu, including Hiroshima and the ancient capital of Kyoto. My aunts and uncles, however, couldn’t understand why I would want to travel alone. They called a meeting at the main house, during which Aunt Nobuko was quickly designated as my new travel companion. Given her generous nature, I have no doubt she volunteered without a second thought. As touched as I was by the gesture, I was also mortified. I had flown halfway around the world to taste the thrill of solitary travel; I certainly didn’t want an older relative to cramp my style. I mustered all my concentration to use polite Japanese phrases to explain how important it was for me to take the trip alone. I was, after all, an independent American girl. I picked up the telephone and began calling various youth hostels to demonstrate to all my skeptical relatives that I could at least make my own arrangements. My tenacity won over my oldest uncle, but it was my mother’s voice of support from more than 6,000 miles away that finally mollified the anxious aunts. Upon receiving a phone call from Aunt Nobuko, my mother reassured her that a solo trip would be good for me. And so they let me go.

Years later, my mother told me about her older sister’s journey at the tail end of World War II. It was nothing like the youthful adventure I had petitioned for when I was 20.

Shortly after marrying a Japanese government bureaucrat, Nobuko accompanied her young husband to Manchuria for his work. My uncle was soon transferred to Siberia. Meanwhile, Aunt Nobuko, who was then around 23, had to evacuate Manchuria along with a group of other Japanese people and travel on foot to Korea. During the arduous trek, her infant daughter, Hiroko, died and had to be buried in a makeshift grave. When Nobuko finally reached Korea, she was faced with a choice: enter an internment camp or become a maid. She went to work for a Korean family who felt only contempt for her because of Japan’s occupation of their country during the 1930s and 1940s. Nobuko cleaned their house, cooked their meals, and took care of their pigs. She never complained and eventually earned the family’s respect. After a few weeks, she was able to return to Tokyo through a prisoner exchange with the help of the US Army. My mother, a teenager at the time, still remembers the emotional homecoming. Nobuko arrived home in Tamagawa weak and malnourished, in shocking contrast to her good health before the war. She was eventually reunited with her husband, and they went on to have two more children and several grandchildren. Years later, when Aunt Kiyoko and my mom needed inspiration and perspective for their own lives, they often recalled their sister’s strength in Manchuria and Korea.

When I learned this week that Aunt Nobuko’s health was failing, her granddaughter Mana and I began coordinating a video call, which involved planning around a 13-hour time difference. We wanted to do a Facebook video chat so the two sisters could say goodbye one last time. Unfortunately, we were several hours too late—by the time my mom and I called, Aunt Nobuko was gone. In the middle of our conversation, which highlighted for me just how much Japanese I’ve forgotten, Mana took her computer and walked over to her grandmother’s bedroom. There, we saw Nobuko’s frail body lying in her bed. Her eyes were closed, her thin white hair cropped short and slicked back. Her face looked relaxed—she was at peace. Soon, her body would be prepared for burial.

I am now almost the same age that Aunt Nobuko was when we met for the first time some 40 years ago. I’ve seen photos of her over the last decade, so I have glimpses of how she aged physically. Within the past year or so, she had also begun to decline cognitively. My heart is full, though, knowing that after such a long and textured life, she had a grace-filled death. If there is a heaven, surely she’s there.

My parents with Aunt Nobuko and her two children, Yoshio and Kazuko, during a visit to the Itsukushima Shrine near Hiroshima ca. 1957. I believe her husband, my uncle Giichi, took this photo.