15 August, 1945
11:20 (40 minutes before capitulation)
Tokyo
Prime Minister Suzuki sat nervously in the grand conference room, built inside the bunker beneath the Imperial Palace. He, along with 16 other members of the Privy Council, was waiting for the Emperor’s arrival to confirm the nation’s acceptance of the Potsdam declaration. It was only a formality, of course, because the Emperor must seek the Privy Council’s advice before he makes any decision. But everyone in the room knew that the surrender would happen. The Emperor’s surrender speech had already been recorded and was now safely in the hands of NHK.
The thick layers of concrete and earth help separated the bunker from the simmering heat of the Tokyo summer and the fires set alight in the city. The United States had already agreed to halt the air raids. Instead, bonfires fuelled by military and political documents were lit all around the Palace and other military headquarters. Inside the bunker, Suzuki was spared from the smell of charred wood and burning paper. A cold, dull, heavy air hugged him instead.
When the men in the conference room heard shuffling beyond the conference room door, they began to stand up in anticipation of the Emperor’s arrival. The younger ministers, in their 40s or 50s, shot upwards from their seats. Old men like Suzuki had to slowly and steadily push themselves up from the table. Suzuki pressed his arms tightly against the sides of his body, and bowed slightly. The black-and-gold doors, decorated with lacquered chrysanthemum etchings, swung open. The Emperor stepped into the room, sullen, yet dignified.  The Emperor’s aide, Kinoe, trailed behind him.
“Your Majesty,” Hiranuma, the President of the Privy Council, addressed the Emperor.
“President,” nodded the Emperor, who gave him a weak smile, “Everyone, please be seated. Good to see everyone safe.”
Suzuki was glad to see the Emperor safe as well. It had been a turbulent night. Several young ultranationalists had tried to stop the surrender negotiations by kidnapping the Emperor. Of course, they were stopped before they could reach him. Yet, many good men died… And everyone was not safe.
“Your Majesty,” Suzuki had to speak up now, “the War Minister…”
The Emperor turned to the Prime Minister, suddenly noticing something amiss in the room. The War Minister was not in attendance.
“…Regrettably, the War Minister has committed seppuku this early morning.”
Suzuki knew that his statement was a half-truth. War Minister Anami did commit seppuku, yet he failed to die. He rejected the offer of kaishaku – to be beheaded and spared of his pain – from his brother-in-law. He passed out and died after a lethal injection was given to him. In politics, Anami disagreed with Suzuki’s position of pursuing surrender. In life, however, the two men were friends and had a great deal of respect for each other. Even the Emperor was a good friend of his. He would affectionately call Anami “Ani.” However, over the past few days, their relationship must be strained, as the Emperor overruled Anami’s decision of continuing the war…
The men in the room, Anami’s friends and rivals alike, dipped their heads in respect and melancholy. The Emperor’s faked smile vanished, as he looked away in sadness. Perhaps ironically, this last meeting was Anami’s idea. It was his final attempt to delay the surrender with formalities and protocols.
“The War Minister left Your Majesty a message. In his notes,” added Suzuki. From his well-ironed black suit – the one he wore during the 226 incident and had since saved for a special occasion – he pulled out the War Minister’s bloodied suicide note, wrapped in a piece of elegant handkerchief that perhaps did not fit the gravitas of the note itself. He unfolded the note and held it up in both hands for the Emperor.
The Emperor took it and read it. In bold calligraphy characters, Anami wrote:
“With my death, may His Majesty forgive me for my great crime.”
The Emperor gave another weak smile. “Thank you, Prime Minister.” He passed the note to his aide, who seemed briefly hesitant to take the bloodied note into his silken gloved-hands. “Then, let us begin.” The Emperor took a seat at the end of the table.
The President stood up, unscrolled the Imperial Edict he had procured earlier, and declared for the Emperor, “I have instructed the Government to declare their acceptance of the Potsdam Declaration, as put forward by the US, the UK, China and the USSR. I did not have time to seek advices from the Privy Council. I hope this is understood and forgiven.” He bounded the scroll, and held it above his head, as per tradition. The other men voiced their approvals, as per tradition.
The radio, in its crackled voice, was still announcing the aerial victories of Japan. The announcer was seemingly ignorant of the broadcast that was to follow. The Navy Minister wondered if the average Japanese citizen knew what was to be announced. This unending stream of jingoistic news must have confounded them. The people were simply told that there would be an announcement by the Emperor made during noon. The content of the announcement was left up to their speculation. Many of them expected a surrender announcement, of course, but some probably thought that it was going to be a formal declaration of war against the Soviets. They just have to endure a little more…