Before I read this book, I was familiar with the plight of the Japanese in North America who were forced into internment camps during World War II. But I had never given a thought to the situation in Japan after the war. The Translation of Love by Japanese-Canadian author Lynne Kutsukake shines light on the human story behind the American occupation of Japan after the end of the war.

The story is told in third person through the eyes of several people, both Japanese-born and people of Japanese heritage from North America. A Japanese-Canadian girl, Aya, and her father are deported to Japan after their time in an internment camp. While struggling to fit in at school, she is befriended by Fumi, whose sister, Sumiko, has been earning money by dancing in bars with American soldiers.

Two other important characters include Japanese-Americans Matt and Nancy, who work as translators for the American government. For the most part, the Japanese people welcomed the American occupiers, and many wrote letters to General Douglas MacArthur, who was the leader of the occupying forces to bring democracy to Japan. These letters needed to be translated into English, and this is where the title of the book comes from.

The characters’ longings and desires are clearly drawn, and I was engaged by their intersecting stories. Fumi wants to send a letter to General MacArthur asking him to find her sister, and she enlists Aya’s help. They end up giving the letter to Matt who, along with Nancy, tries to find Sumiko among the myriad bars in Tokyo. Meanwhile, Sumiko develops a problem of her own and flees to a hidden location.

Lynne Kutsukake’s writing style is clean and straightforward. She weaves in relevant details about life in Japan to help the reader imagine what it would have been like to live there at that time both as an American (who had access to more wealth and food), and as a Japanese person (many of whom struggled to make ends meet). Here is the beginning of chapter 1, just before Fumi meets Aya:

Ever since her sister had gone away, Fumi looked forward to the democracy lunches with a special, ravenous hunger. The American soldiers came to her school once a week with deliveries, and although she never knew what they would bring, it didn’t matter. She wanted it all, whatever it was. Sometimes it was powdered milk and soft white bread as fluffy as cake. Sometimes it was a delicious oily meat called Spam. Occasionally it was peanut butter, a sticky brown paste whose unusual flavor—somehow sweet and salty at the same time—was surprisingly addictive.

The characters in this novel are gentle and appealing. I was surprised at the lack of anger and resentment on the part of the Japanese, but perhaps this was true to life.