The Yen was 365 to the Dollar then. (It’s now around 106). The sun shone radiantly on that beautiful summer day in early August. I took a train into Tokyo from the sprawling U.S. military complex at Tachikawa, about 50 miles north of the city, then caught a cab and went sight-seeing. I didn’t know if I’d ever get the chance again. My broken-English driver knew I was a GI on holiday and would probably tip well.

He first took me to the Imperial Gardens. Late in the afternoon, we ended-up at a Buddhist shrine, which he insisted I visit. "Must see, must see," he said. It was a slow day in Tokyo and he didn’t mind waiting, even accompanying me to the shrine entrance.

As we neared the temple, I saw many elderly Japanese coming from the temple, tearful. They gave me strange looks, but they were not hostile, perhaps surprised an American would be there, especially a young serviceman. The cabby told me the protocols to observe that would show respect for the shrine. He was going in, too, and I followed.

We knelt before the large Buddha, lightly clapped our hands to summon Buddha’s attention, then meditated. I don’t recall for what I prayed, and I don’t think it offended Buddha that, in my heart, I spoke to my Lord and Savior. I’m sure my prayers asked for my safety in Vietnam, where I would return, and for world peace. Pro-Soviet Communists were demonstrating at the gate of the base when I left that morning.

There were cultural exhibits and gardens on the grounds and my tour guide-cabby recommended I view them. He was pleased to wait in the cab. I stood observing a rice display that showed the sake-making process. A woman approached. She was older, perhaps 30. To a 21 years old, that is an ‘older woman.’ She was attractive and smiled pleasantly. I nodded and smiled back.

"Are you an American?" she asked, in good English.

"Yes, I guess that’s obvious," I replied, laughing. She giggled.

"That was very nice of you to show respect in the temple," she said. "Many Americans come here and just walk in with cameras and talk while they take pictures. It is an important shrine to us," she added.

We continued talking and then sat in chairs in front of a small café, nearby. My cabby was reading a paperback book and had nodded off. I sipped my usual, Coca-Cola. She had tea. I asked her why so many were crying when they came away from the shrine.

"This shrine is to honor the memory of those who died in the war," she said. "Many parents and family members come here to remember the ones who were lost. This is also a sad day for many Japanese."

I was unaware.

"This is the anniversary of Hiroshima." She paused, cleared her throat, and said, "That is why I am here." She expressed no grudges and showed no hatred towards me or America. She told her story.

"I was 8 years old and my parents sent me and my younger brother to a Catholic mission school in Hiroshima so we would learn English. There had been bombings around the City and the Sisters were afraid for our safety so they took us into the mountains near the City. We could see the bombers that would fly back and forth.

"Then one day there was the big bomb. We saw this great cloud rising into the heavens. All the sky began to turn different colors. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, but the Sisters were crying. Then we saw that the City was burning and realized that our families were still there." Tears had fallen from her eyes as she spoke. She was embarrassed and apologized for her emotion, but she continued, at my urging.

"The worst part was afterwards. All my family was killed. All my relatives, too. Our homes no longer existed. The school was gone. My brother and I almost starved because the people hated us and would not let us in the food lines."

"The Japanese people of Hiroshima, the survivors? Why do they hate you?" I asked, incredulous.

"Because there was nothing wrong with us. Because we had survived and had no injuries. They were all burned or greatly injured. We had to steal food to survive, like rats. It was a terrible time."

My cabby had awakened and lightly honked his horn. She rose and extended her hand. I took it and held it gently, briefly. "God bless you," she said, smiling, her cheeks moist, but her eyes clear. Before I could speak, she had turned and walked away.