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I have written this book for three reasons:
For horror of war. I want others to shudder with me at it.
For affection for my husband. When war nearly killed me, knowledge of our love kept alive.
And for a reminder to my son. I fought one war for him in prison camp. He survives because of me. He belongs now to peace. I remind him that it is better to give more and to have less – and to keep the peace – than to fight.
The Japanese in this book are as war made them, not as God did, and the same is true of the rest of us. We are not pleasant people here, for the story of war is always the story of hate; it makes no difference with whom one fights. The hate destroys you spiritually as the fighting destroys you bodily.
If there are tears shed here, they are for the death of good feeling. If there is horror, it is those who speak indifferently of “the next war”. If there is hate, it is for hateful qualities, not nations. If there is love, it is because this alone kept me alive and sane.
A. N. K.