Sugihara

April 20, 1939 – Tokyo, Japan

Chiune “Sempo” Sugihara sat stiffly in the anteroom outside Ambassador Hiroshi Oshima’s temporary office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His expression was calm, but beneath it simmered anger and disappointment. His long-sought appointment as consul general in Moscow—an assignment he was uniquely qualified for—had been denied. Instead, he now reported to Oshima, a man he despised and suspected had blocked his appointment.

A young officer bowed. “Mr. Sugihara, General Oshima will see you now. This way, please.”

Sempo rose, briefcase in hand, and followed him into a large, austere office. Oshima stood by the window in full army uniform, medals gleaming despite his civilian role as ambassador to Germany. The fiftyish man glared at Sempo with penetrating and appraising eyes.

“Sugihara, sit,” Oshima said, in a tone that might be used to address a junior officer. “How was your journey from Königsberg?”

“Tiring. Three weeks by train, ship, and plane.”

Oshima took his seat behind a massive desk. “Same for me, coming from Berlin. Now, as for your posting—”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier if we had met in Berlin? Königsberg is only a few hundred kilometers away.”

Oshima sniffed. “We were called back for high-level diplomatic and intelligence discussions involving key people in the Foreign Ministry and the military here in Tokyo. Diplomatic strategy in Europe needs coordination with everyone here. You’re here because of your knowledge of Soviet and Eastern European affairs. I also have new instructions for you.”

“Before we get into that, may I ask about my request to be posted to the consulate in Moscow? I speak fluent Russian and have intelligence experience with Soviet affairs. I believe I can add value by enhancing and strengthening our relations with the Soviets—”

“That’s precisely the problem,” Oshima cut in. “You’re too soft.”

Sempo clenched the handle of his briefcase. “Too soft?”

“In 1935, you resigned from Harbin because you objected to the army’s methods in Manchuria.”

“I resigned because innocent civilians were being brutalized. That kind of rule breeds resistance, not loyalty.”

Oshima scoffed. “Loyalty is irrelevant. Obedience is enough. These people only have to do what we tell them to do. If they don’t, they’ll face the consequences.”

Sempo inhaled slowly. “I know how to work with the Soviets. I successfully negotiated the North Manchurian Railroad deal with them.”

“With help.” Oshima smirked. “The negotiation was only made possible with the help you received from the army. They obtained the evidence you needed to bargain with the Russians.”

“Yes, and innocent Russians died because of how the army obtained that evidence.”

Oshima’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Be that as it may, the Soviets blame you for actions taken during that process. That alone disqualifies you for Consul General in Moscow.”

“I can prove—”

“Perhaps you can, perhaps not.” Oshima paused. “You were married to a Russian woman, were you not?”

A memory from the night they first met, when Klaudia performed on stage, flashed through his mind. “Yes, I was. We divorced several years ago.”

“Still, some believe you’re too close to Russia. Even sympathetic to communism.”

Sempo shook his head vigorously. “I am not, and she was a White Russian, not a Bolshevik.”

“Why did you divorce?”

“My goal was to serve as a diplomat in Russia. My wife refused to go back to her home country for obvious reasons. There were other incompatibilities as well.”

Oshima faced him again, his eyes narrowed. “Why do you want that post in Moscow so badly?”

“Because the Soviet Union is a large and powerful country,” Sempo replied evenly. “Another conflict with them would be catastrophic. I believe I can promote an understanding between our countries to prevent that.”

Oshima dismissed his arguments with a wave. “Russia’s power is fleeting. Germany is the future. Hitler understands power. I’ve cultivated strong ties with Berlin.”

Sempo remained silent, though he was aware of the Nazi regime’s brutal persecution of Jews and others. He had read Mein Kampf. He understood where Germany was headed.

“At any rate,” Oshima continued, “you’ll serve as vice consul in Kaunas, Lithuania. Your primary task there is intelligence. You will keep your eyes and ears open and report on any significant Soviet troop movements near Poland and the Baltic countries and increases in war materiel shipments.”

“Yes.” Sempo sighed. “To whom shall I be reporting?”

“Only to me.”

“But you’re not giving me the title of consul general?”

“The size of the legation in Kaunas doesn’t warrant the presence of a consul general.” Oshima smirked.

Sempo knew he was being treated unfairly, perhaps as punishment for disagreeing with Oshima.

“Anything else?”

Sempo had plenty of other things to say, but he figured they wouldn’t be heard by this man. “No.”

“Good. That’s all then. I’m sure you have other matters to attend to.” Oshima turned back to the window, dismissing him.

Sempo bowed stiffly. He picked up his briefcase and left the office with frustration burning in his chest. He understood the Foreign Ministry’s wariness toward the Soviets. But how could the ministry ignore the danger Germany posed?

August 5, 1939 – Königsberg, Germany

Yukiko Sugihara scanned the train platform anxiously as the train from Hamburg chugged in, steam billowing up from the locomotive and the train bells ringing. She spotted her husband stepping down from the first-class car, carrying a small suitcase. No doubt they’d have to wait for the porters to unload the larger suitcases. She hurried to him. He looked haggard and exhausted in his rumpled suit and loosened necktie.

“Okairinasai. How was the journey?”

He set down his suitcase. “Long.”

“Is everything all right?”

“We’ll be moving again. Not to Moscow, but to Kaunas in Lithuania.”

“Yes, you told me in your last letter. I’m so sorry.” Yukiko tried to smile, though she knew how much he had his heart set on becoming the Consul General in Moscow.

“I could make a real impact if I were allowed to work in Russia. Instead, I’m being posted to a little insignificant country, doing insignificant work.”

“At least it’s somewhat close to Russia.”

Sempo nodded.

She squeezed his hand, knowing how bitter the disappointment still was.

“Are the children well?”

Kayo is returning to Japan. We’ll have a new nanny.”

Sempo sighed. “I hope she’s as good as Kayo was. It takes a special kind of woman to come all the way from Japan to take care of our children.”

“I’ll miss Kayo.”

Sempo picked his suitcase. “Let’s go home and prepare to move.”

* * *

September 4, 1939 – Kaunas, Lithuania

War had come.

The crisp morning air carried a sense of foreboding as Sempo Sugihara approached the Japanese consulate, his heart heavy with the weight of recent world events. The ornate brass doorbell rang brightly when he pressed it.

The door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged Japanese man with a weary expression etched across his face. “Ah, Vice Consul Sugihara, welcome to Kaunas. I’m Kintaro Ohta, your assistant. I trust your journey from Königsberg wasn’t too arduous?”

Sempo brushed past Ohta, his voice tight with barely contained anxiety. “Pleasantries can wait, Ohta-san. We have more pressing matters at hand. My office – where is it?”

“Of—of course, sir. Up the stairs, first door on your right.”

Once inside the office, Sempo whirled to face his assistant. “Forgive my abruptness, Ohta-san, but we’re facing a crisis. What’s the latest news from Poland?”

Ohta’s face grew grave as he delivered the grim report. “Our sources paint a dire picture, Vice Consul. The German war machine is tearing through the country. Despite the Poles’ valiant resistance, they’re no match for Hitler’s forces –dive bombers are destroying bridges, railways, roads, and supply depots, while armored divisions pour through defenses like water through a sieve.”

“The Soviet-German pact caught everyone off guard,” Sempo muttered, pacing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Soviets soon invade Poland from the east to keep a buffer zone between them and Germany.”

“Yes, sir. It’s incredible what’s happened.”

Sempo sat behind his desk and grabbed a pen and paper. “Ohta-san, I’ll draft a report. Encode it and wire it to Ambassador Oshima in Berlin. He’ll inform Tokyo.”

He suspected Oshima already knew. Still, protocol mattered.

July 18, 1940

Sempo stared out his second-floor window at the crowd gathered outside the consulate gates—hundreds of men, women, and children.

“Who are they?” he asked Ohta.

“Mostly Polish Jews. I’ve spoken to some of them from inside our gate. With their homeland dissolved, they fled here. But they know that even Lithuania might soon be conquered, and they’re trying to escape Europe altogether. Some have Dutch exit visas for Curaçao they obtained from that consulate, but with the Netherlands under German occupation, those visas are worthless, and they’re stuck. They’ve been here since dawn, their numbers growing by the hour. The poor people come to us for help.”

As Sempo gazed out at the crowd, the past year flashed before his eyes. Since his arrival in Kaunas, Hitler’s Wehrmacht had devoured Europe piece by piece: Poland, Denmark, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, and now France. The number of safe havens shrank with each passing day.

“Ohta-san, we can’t write exit visas for them. We can’t help them. Japan is allied with Germany. Our government would never approve. Ask them to leave.”

“I can try, sir. But I fear it’s futile. These people...” Ohta gestured towards the window, his hand trembling. “They have nowhere to go.”

Sempo turned back to the window. Duty pressed against conscience.

July 30, 1940

Yukiko’s soft footsteps broke the heavy silence as she joined her husband in his study. “Anata,” she whispered, her voice tinged with sorrow, “they gather there outside the gate every day. Their faces... they haunt me. Isn’t there anything we could do for them?”

Sempo’s shoulders sagged, the burden of his position evident in every line of his body. “I’ve written to my superiors in the Foreign Ministry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “But there’s been nothing but silence. No response, let alone approval to issue the visas.”

Yukiko’s heart ached for her husband. She understood the precarious position he was in. To act without approval could mean the end of his career, or worse, arrest and punishment. Yet, the man she had married had deep compassion, unwavering moral conviction, and steadfast faith. With infinite tenderness, she placed her hand on his arm. “Anata, what do you think God is telling you to do?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Sempo stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if searching for divine guidance in the fading light. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve been thinking and praying hard about it, Yukiko. The silence from above is deafening, but so are the cries of the people below. I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I requested approval to issue the exit visas and haven’t gotten it, but... they haven’t said no, either.”

Yukiko nodded, understanding the glimmer of hope in that technicality. “If you give them the visas, how will they leave Europe?”

“East, through the Soviet Union. Then Japan.”

She nodded. “So, you understand what needs to be done.”

“Tomorrow, we begin.”

July 31, 1940

Dawn broke over Kaunas, painting the sky in hues of hope and desperation. Outside the Japanese consulate, a sea of anxious faces pressed against the wrought-iron gate, their eyes fixed on the building that held their fate. The air was thick with tension, prayers whispered in Polish, Yiddish, and other languages, as the Jewish refugees gathered once more, clinging to a sliver of hope that had sustained them since July 18th.

Through the window, Sempo gazed at the people waiting outside, especially at the innocent eyes of the children that reminded him of his own children.

Inside, he stood before his assembled staff. The weight of countless lives rested on his shoulders as he surveyed the room – Ohta, a handful of clerks, and Yukiko, all ready to embark on a clandestine mission of mercy. Sheets of blank paper were stacked on several tables, each sheet a potential lifeline.

“Good morning, everyone,” Sempo began, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within him. “Today, we embark on a task that transcends our duties as diplomats. We will issue exit visas to the people waiting outside.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. “I need your help to interview applicants and craft these visas by hand. Remember, each visa represents a human life – perhaps an entire family. Treat them with the utmost care and respect.”

Ohta, with his face a mask of concern, stepped forward. “Vice Consul, are you absolutely certain about this course of action?” The unspoken implications hung heavy in the air – career suicide, potential arrest, the wrath of their superiors in Tokyo.

Sempo didn’t respond. Instead, he addressed all the staff. “We have to work fast. The Soviets are taking over Lithuania in two weeks. The government will cease to exist, and these visas will not be honored after that point. Ohta-san, send the first applicant in. I’ll interview this person, and the rest of you can interview the applicants who follow.”

Ohta brought in the first applicant, an older man and his wife, their faces lined with the weight of a lifetime of memories and recent horrors. They sat down in front of Sempo.

“What is your name and your wife’s?” Sempo asked.

The man introduced himself, his voice quavering. “Jakob Horowitz, and my wife’s name is Leah.”

Sempo’s pen hovered over the blank visa. “Age?”

“Sixty-three, and she is sixty-one.”

“Occupation?”

“Retired medical doctor.”

“Destination?”

“San Francisco,” Jakob said, his voice catching. “We... we live there. But we came back to Warsaw for my mother’s final days. She... she passed just weeks ago.” Tears welled in his eyes, the grief of loss compounded by the terror of their current situation.

“Do you have adequate money to travel?”

“Yes, I do.”

Sempo scribbled the text of the visa, and with a flourish, he signed his name. “Approved,” he said softly, handing the precious document to Mr. Horowitz.

“Thank you, Mr. Sugihara.” Jakob clutched the paper as if it were made of gold. “Thank you.”

Sempo glanced at Ohta. “Next.”

A young woman entered, two small girls clinging to her skirts, their eyes wide with fear and wonder. She sat on a chair, while the girls clambered onto and shared the other chair.

“Miriam Goldstein,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My daughters, Sara and Esther.”

Sempo’s heart clenched at the sight of the little family. “Age?”

“Thirty-two.” She drew her children closer. “My daughters seven and five.”

“Is this your entire party?”

A shadow passed over Miriam’s face. “Yes. My husband... he fell fighting the Germans.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief.

“Your destination?”

Miriam hesitated; uncertainty seemed to cloud her eyes. “Um, New... New York,” she stammered, as if the very act of naming a future was foreign to her.

“Do you have enough money to travel?”

Miriam’s gaze dropped to the floor, shame and fear appearing on her face.

Without hesitation, Sempo’s pen flew across the paper. “Approved,” he declared, extending the visa to Miriam.

As she took the document, tears spilled down her cheeks. “God bless you, Mr. Sugihara,” she whispered, a tremulous smile breaking through her tears like sunshine after a storm.

As Miriam and her daughters left the office, Sempo felt a renewed surge of determination. With a deep breath, he called for the next applicant, ready to help another life.

September 4, 1940

The air was thick with tension as Sempo Sugihara received the fateful order from the Japanese Foreign Ministry, directing him to close the consulate and immediately depart from Lithuania, which was now firmly in the grip of the Soviets.

But Sempo’s resolve only strengthened in the face of this final obstacle. With feverish determination, he continued his life-saving work, his pen flying across visa after visa. The consulate buzzed with frantic energy as Sempo, Yukiko, and their loyal staff worked tirelessly, acutely aware that each signature could mean the difference between life and death.

As the dreaded hour of departure approached, Sempo’s desperation grew. Even as he boarded the train, he leaned from the window, signing visas on scraps of paper, passing them into desperate hands.

By the time the train pulled away, nearly 6,000 people carried his signature—and hope.