If there’s thing I’ll never to forget, it would be what I read inside the Hiroshima Peace Museum. What I think of is “The Holocaust in Hiroshima,” a painting in the basement of that building, but even that is not quite what I imagine.
The temporary survivors of the atom bomb called out for water. They were so hot, their skin burned black, their mouths dry, tongues gummy. They moaned and cried for water, lying on the glassed earth.
And the ones who could walk clambered down the banks of the Ota to fetch water.
They fed liquid fire to their loved ones, and the temporaries cooked from the inside out.
The water-bearers also died from exposure.
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