(Rev. Nobuo Matsumoto was minister of Berkeley Higashi Honganji Temple in California from 1941 to 1947 during a critical time during World War II, the temple’s closure, and returning at war’s end. He wrote about his experience for the temple’s 50th Anniversary in 1976, which recently was translated to English from Japanese for the temple’s 100th Anniversary this year.)
Just before the start of World War II in August 1941, I was transferred from the Los Angeles temple to Berkeley Higashi Honganji. Compared to the restrictive life of working under others, I was now in charge of my own temple and I felt greatly uplifted and encouraged. In addition, temple members treated me with great kindness, and I wanted to devote all my energy towards spreading the Dharma.
Then war broke out. I covered the altar furnishings with white sheets and boarded up the windows of the main hall. Carrying the Gohonzon (altar centerpiece) statue of Amida Buddha, I entered Tanforan Assembly Center in San Bruno (just south of San Francisco). I can never forget it was April 29, Japan’s emperor’s birthday.
Because I was single, I stayed with the family of Mr. Santaro Fujita. Around us were iron fences. Fighter planes and bombers constantly flew overhead. Those were truly anxious and unsettled days. Yet perhaps because of those circumstances, fellow Buddhists burned all the more intensely with the desire to hear the Dharma. Every Sunday service was filled beyond capacity.
At our Shin Buddhist discussion gatherings, people such as Mr. Heizō Higuchi and Mr. Masaharu Nagata warmly encouraged me, saying, “There are dependable supporters at Matsumoto’s temple, so we feel reassured. You must be making great efforts in sharing the Dharma.” I also remember being told this by Rev. Okamoto who came from San Francisco Nishi Hongwanji headquarters.
Before long, we were sent to an incarceration camp in Arizona. There, I got married. Every day, reports announced enemy losses—three battleships, five cruisers, seven destroyers, and more than a dozen airplanes shot down while U.S. losses were described as extremely minor, creating an overly optimistic impression. Until the end of the war in August 1945, when we were finally released from the camps, I completely believed those optimistic reports.
When I finally returned to the Berkeley temple, there was no house left, no automobile left, and more than twenty members were living inside the main hall, dividing the hall with a piano and blankets. Morning and evening, we all lived together there.
With four children to support, I had no choice but to work as a gardener. Even now, I can never forget the taste of the three bottles of beer I drank in the evening after returning home exhausted from a day of gardening work.
I have two memories from those gardening days. At that time, I worked under Mr. Takagi, a second-generation Japanese American. I think the house where I worked was somewhere far off Telegraph Avenue. The client was Mrs. Brown, and my task was to clean up her yard. Mr. Takagi told me, “Since the garden is small, do it yourself.”
Just before lunchtime, I was clearing away piles of trimmings and weeds. The garden had become terribly overgrown. Standing at a distance, I swung a hand sickle and cut branches from the trees. Every time a branch fell heavily to the ground, Mrs. Brown would let out a little cry of surprise. Eventually, the work was finished.
Mrs. Brown and her husband looked at me in amazement. Her husband asked, “How many years have you been doing this work?”
Not wanting them to take advantage of my inexperience, I answered, “About twenty years.”
“I thought so,” he said. “We’ve hired many gardeners, but I’ve never seen anyone work the way you do. From now on, would you take care of our yard three times a month? We’d like you to create a rose garden here, and we’ll leave the method to you.”
He pointed out where he wanted the roses planted. Some of the varieties they wanted had names I’d never heard before. To me, white roses, pink roses, and yellow roses were all simply “roses.” I promised to return later and went home, though honestly, I had no idea what to do.
Later, I called them and confessed. “To tell you the truth, my claim of twenty years of gardening experience was a lie. Actually, I’m a Buddhist minister. I know nothing about gardening. I have no idea how to create a rose garden. On top of that, I have not been feeling well for several days, so I thought perhaps I should ask someone else to do the work.”
That evening, Mrs. Brown arrived carrying a large basket of roses. First, she quietly looked around the peaceful atmosphere of the Buddhist temple hall.
Then she said, “I heard you’d been feeling poorly, Reverend, my heart just goes out to you. Seeing you working away so faithfully at something so new and difficult touched me dearly. Promise me you’ll take good care of yourself.”
I was deeply moved. It was the first time I experienced such kindness from a white person.
Here’s another memory.
Since I wasn’t very skilled, the only work I could really do was mowing lawns and hauling away trash. Once a week, I’d go to a hospital somewhere in San Leandro. Rev. Takagi drove the truck, while two white men and I rode in the back.
In late spring and early autumn, the weather was manageable, but in winter the cold was unbearable. Wrapped in a lumber jacket, covered with grass clippings and trash, and pulling a heavy canvas garbage bag over my head as we drove down the highway, I could hardly endure it. It was not merely “a little cold.” My whole body felt frozen solid.
Now that I live in warm Hawai‘i, remembering those days reminds me just how bitterly cold the winters on the mainland once felt.
-Rev. Matsumoto was Berkeley Higashi Honganj’s minister from 1941 to 1947, later serving several years at temples in Hawaii.