JPRI Occasional Paper 35 (September 2005)
Prewar, Occupation, and Post-Occupation Japan: Three Vignettes
by Peter Berton
[NOTE: Please click on small images to see picture details.]
My first encounter with Japan was in March 1939, when the Harbin Symphony Orchestra in Manchuria was sent on a goodwill tour of Japan and Korea. I played in the first violin section of the orchestra, and was a teenage junior at the Y.M.C.A. College in Harbin. It was almost a one-month's tour, and we started with five concerts at Hibiya Hall in Tokyo, three concerts in Osaka, and one each in Nagoya, Hakata, and Nagasaki, in addition to concerts in Manchuria and Korea. The long train journey started in Harbin, and we made our way all the way to Pusan (then Fusan), the southernmost port on the Korean peninsula, boarded the Kampu renraku-sen ferry to Shimonoseki, and on to Tokyo. There was no bullet train in those prewar days, so it was a very long journey to the Japanese capital.
In Tokyo we stayed in the Marunouchi Hotel, right next to the Tokyo Station. Not knowing a word of Japanese, I did not notice the discrepanc ies in the concert program, which was partly in English and partly in Japanese (see below) . For example, the program in English simply stated that it was a Grand Concert of the Harbin Symphony Orchestra, whereas the Japanese text described the event as a Japan-Manchukuo Defense Against Communism Friendship Artistic Mission (Nichiman Bokyo Shinzen Geijutsu Shisetsu). Furthermore, the event was sponsored by the Greater Japan Music Association (Dai Nippon Ongaku Kyokai) and the Manshu Shimbunsha newspaper; sanctioned by the puppet Manchukuo Embassy in Tokyo; and backed by the Japan Columbia Musical Instruments Company. In other words, it was not a normal concert tour, but one with political and commercial overtones. The first concert in Tokyo started with the national anthems of Japan and Manchukuo, followed by the funeral march from Beethoven's " Eroica " symphony (but only the Japanese text noted that it was in memory of Japanese soldiers who had died in the so-called Manchurian Incident).
Prewar Tokyo had a number of world-class European musicians who had taught at the Imperial Conservatory (most, though not all of them, were Jews who fled in the wake of the Russian revolution and Nazi persecution). Our concert tour organizers took advantage of the presence of these world-class musicians and engaged some of them as soloists and as a guest conductor. For example, the violinist Alexander Moguilewsky, who in Tsarist days concertized with Sergei Rachmaninoff and was the concertmaster of the Moscow Philharmonic conducted by Serge Koussevitsky (later of Boston Symphony fame) , performed the Tchaikovsky violin concerto; and Leonid Kreutzer, another famous musician, not only played Beethoven's "Emperor" concerto, but also conducted one entire all-Beethoven program, including the piano concerto, which he conducted from the keyboard.
Of course, our guest soloists were not only European musicians but also famous Japanese: the renowned tenor Fujiwara Yoshie and the talented young pianist Kai Miwako, who performed the first Liszt concerto. We also met Prime Minister Konoye's brother Hidemaro, a prominent musician and composer trained in Germany. He conducted his own composition Etenraku, which is in the ancient Gagaku court music style. Reflect ing the fact that most of the orchestra musicians were Russians (we had other Europeans in the orchestra: Poles, Czechs, Jewish refugees from Germany and one Japanese cellist), the program featured many Russian composers.
A few years ago, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a Japanese book with a strange title, loosely translated as "The Symphony Orchestra of the Royal Paradise: The Unknown History of Music in Manchuria" (Odo rakudo no kokyogaku: Manshu - Shirare zaru ongaku shi) from the author , Iwano Yuichi. This was the story of the Harbin Symphony published in the year 2000 by the "Friends of Music Company" (Ongaku no Tomo Sha). I was particularly interested to read the section on our trip to Japan and learned some details of our visit of which I had no recollection. For example, that in Hsinking, the capital of Manchukuo , we were met by the famous actress Yamaguchi Yoshiko, known as Rikoran (and later member of the upper house of the Japanese parliament); that we "prayed" in front of the Imperial Palace; that we marched on the Ginza with a banner displaying the characters "Concordia Anti-Communist Culture " (Kyowa hankyo bunka); and stopped to take a commemorative picture in front of the Ginza Playguide ticket office. (Kyowa is a reference to the Kyowa-kai or Concordia Society, a Japanese - sponsored organization in Manchukuo designed to promote harmony among five nationalities: Chinese, Japanese, Manchu, Mongolians, and Koreans.) I also forgot that we gave a radio concert at the NHK studio in Tokyo; went sightseeing in Kyoto, where we were also filmed playing Rimsky-Korsakov's " Sheherezade ," saw the Takarazuka Girls Opera, and watched sumo wrestling in Osaka.
Our first sold-out concert at Hibiya Hall was attended by members of the diplomatic corps and the Japanese cultural elite. By the way, in those days seats in Hibiya Hall were so narrow that some Europeans had trouble getting in, and especially out of them .
Because of foreign exchange restrictions and the general political atmosphere, for a few years Tokyoites had not heard musicians from Europe and the United States, and eagerly awaited the sixty European musicians from Harbin. Tickets were two , three , and four yen, double the price of concerts by local musicians. Our concerts were a big success with the public, but Joseph Rosenstock, the conductor of the NHK Orchestra (and of the New York City Opera after the war) , was not impressed. And for good reason, because his NHK orchestra composed entirely of Japanese musicians was bigger and more disciplined than ours, although ours had a number of outstanding first desk principals who before the Revolution had played in some of the finest orchestras in Russia. What I didn't know, was that Japanese critics were accustomed to higher standards and tore our performance to pieces. Or as Iwano puts it, "The Harbin Orchestra was like a summer bug flying into fire." One critic, listening to our radio concert, commented that he thought something was wrong with his radio, and criticized our pitch and rhythm and lack of cohesion (that we played barabara). A Japanese conductor remarked that he would refuse if asked to conduct the orchestra. There was one critic who disagreed , noting the fine playing by our first desk soloists. I wonder, however, if some of the Japanese critics were particularly harsh on us because it gave them an opportunity to stress the superiority of the Japanese at a time when government propaganda was stridently anti-West.
We were taken on sightseeing tours, such as to the Kamakura Buddha , had a banquet at the richly decorated Gajoen restaurant in Meguro (paid for by Ayukawa's Manchurian Heavy Industries), and saw famous sights in other cities as well. We also did a little exploring on our own, most memorably the famous pleasure quarters of Yoshiwara in Tokyo, closed during the Occupation , under pressure from the U.S. authoriti es. The atmosphere in Tokyo was quite normal, in spite of the fact that it was almost two years after the so-called China Incident. While Hitler marched into and dismembered Czechoslovakia at the very time of our tour, it was a couple of months before the fierce Nomonhan battles between the Kwantung Army and the combined Soviet-Outer Mongolian forces under the command of the future Marshal Zhukov, six months before the outbreak of hostilities in Europe, and almost three years before the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Fifty Years Since the Opening of the Gaimusho Archives
It was the fall of 1951. The San Francisco Conference had just ended, and Japan would soon become a sovereign nation again, as soon as the peace treaty was ratified.
But the Gaimusho (Foreign Ministry) had another matter to deal with. Three graduate students from Columbia University wanted to base their doctoral dissertations on Japanese Foreign Ministry archives. In fact , in anticipation of the end of the Occupation, the U.S. State Department had decided to microfilm all important Gaimusho archives, before Japan would become again independent and probably restrict access to its national archives. This operation was headed by an "Old Japan Hand," Glenn Shaw, and assisted by the late Tom Smith, who subsequently became an important historian of the Tokugawa period at Stanford and Berkeley. So it is perhaps not surprising that the Foreign Ministry authorities decided to open their archives to the American students. I might mention that to my knowledge no Japanese scholar had similar access at the time. The three Columbians were Jim Morley involved in a study of the Siberian intervention, Arthur Tiedemann working on the Hamaguchi cabinet and the naval disarmament conference , and yours truly engaged in a study of the 1916 military alliance between Japan and Russia.
To anyone familiar with the starkly modern building housing the Gaimusho today at Kasumigaseki, and the elegant more traditional Shiryo-kan (Archival Repository) in Azabu, kitty-corner from the Soviet (now Russian) Embassy, it will come as a surprise that in 1951 the Ministry occupied space in a building then known as Nissan-kan that was later torn down. Moreover , the building was located on a street that no longer exists (Tamura-cho is now one of the chomes of Shimbashi). The Archives Section (Shiryo-shitsu) was located on one of the higher floors, and, in spite of general crowding, the authorities were kind enough to provide space to the young scholars. Once a week or so, we would ask for a number of files which we had identified from existing checklists, or on many an occasion we would go to the Gaimusho kura, the fireproof archival structure that had survived the air raids. We would bring a four-wheel ed cart which we would load up with files and take to the Archives Section where we had our desks. Often our searches were like fishing expeditions, and we discovered important historical documents not directly related to our research. I remember our excitement when one of us discovered a memorandum written by General Machida Keiu, a military attaché in the Japanese Legation in Peking in 1914, which turned out to be the basis of the infamous "Twenty-one Demands" submitted to China in January 1915, and which caused such turmoil in Sino-Japanese relations.
One day , one of the Shiryo-shitsu employees opened the fire-proof safe in the kura, and started showing us the historical documents that were kept there. One of the first was an elaborate parchment-type document addressed to, if my memory serves me right , "My dear and great friend, the Tycoon of Japan," and signed Abraham Lincoln. Of course, President Lincoln lived during the Tokugawa period, and it was assumed that the Shogun was the supreme ruler. There were in the safe also originals of the many treaties to which Japan was a signatory.
One of the senior researchers at the Archives Section was Mr. (later Dr.) Kurihara Ken, a very knowledgeable, warm, and kind person who sort of adopted the three graduate students from Columbia. He had served in Peking. Our research was greatly facilitated by Kurihara sensei's advice and help. Since the National Diet Library was not yet in existence, I had to rely on the Ueno library (which would later become the nucleus for the Kokkai Toshokan) for primary and secondary documentation. Professor Fujii Sadafumi of Kokugakuin University was also head of the reference department at Ueno, and he proved invaluable in helping me to locate the autobiographies, biographies, and memoirs of all the major players on the Japanese political scene during the period of the First World War.
One day, I asked him to find me a student to copy documents (there were no xerox machines in those days), and perform other office chores. He sent one of his students at Kokugakuin, Yoshimura Michio, then twenty years old. Although Michio was not much help in reading Meiji and early Taisho period documents (for that one needed someone fifty years of age or older), he turned out to be a reliable helper. To jump ahead, Michio's life was completely changed because of this chance to do arubaito for an American graduate student. After I had left Japan, he was offered some part-time work in the Archives Section, and when an opening occurred for a junior staff researcher, he was selected for the position. I am sure it did not hurt that Kurihara sensei was an alumnus of Kokugakuin University, but I am certain that Michio impressed everyone in the section with his reliability, sense of responsibility, and genial disposition. Michio's entire career centered on the archives, and eventually he became the head of the section. Forty years after being my research assistant, he retired in 1991, and had a second career as professor at the Shizuoka Prefectural University. Ten years later he reached retirement age at Shizuoka , and is now back at the Archives twice a week, as a consultant.
Some of the participants in Japan's diplomatic effort during the second decade of the century were still alive, although all the elder statesmen of the period -- the prime ministers, foreign ministers, and senior military figures -- were no longer living . But junior members, secretaries to foreign ministers, and other low-ranking diplomats at the time of the Great War were still alive. One of my first interviewees was former Prime Minister Ashida Hitoshi, who during the period of my research was a junior member in the Japanese legation in St. Petersburg, and who had published a memoir, entitled "Russia on the Eve of Revolution" (Kakumei zen'ya no Roshia). I had trouble communicating with his secretary in trying to arrange a meeting. He kept saying in Japanese "please convey to Baaton-san," and in spite of my saying several times "honnin desu," trying to impress on him that it was me and not someone calling on my behalf in Japanese. Eventually, I did meet with Mr. Ashida, and he clarified some passages in his memoir, and provided a useful account of life in the Japanese legation in St. Petersburg under Ambassador Motono Ichiro.
On another occasion, I met Mr. Ashida together with General Doi Akio, the former head of the Japanese "special organ" (tokumu kikan), the headquarters of Japanese intelligence services vis-à-vis the Soviet Union. Ashida loved to speak English, and in spite of all my efforts to switch to Japanese, because I knew that General Doi did not understand spoken English, Ashida insisted on speaking only in English. He also discussed the special police forces (precursors of the Self-Defense Forces) being formed in Japan at that time, in the midst of the Korean conflict.
I also learned interesting things about Ambassador (later Foreign Minister) Motono, whose grandson I understand followed in his footsteps. Motono was the Japanese Ambassador in Paris for a number of years, before being transferred to St. Petersburg. The lingua franca of the Russian bureaucracy and aristocracy was French, making him a good choice because of his fluency in French. The problem arose when he was summoned to Tokyo to become Foreign Minister in the Terauchi cabinet (like most other influential people at the time, he was from the Choshu clan). Now, as Foreign Minister, Motono had to deliver foreign policy speeches in the Imperial Diet. I was told that over a decade in European capitals had taken its toll, and Viscount Motono's ability to write formal speeches in Japanese was rather limited. As a result, he wrote out his policy speeches in French and had them translated into Japanese for formal presentation in the Diet.
I wanted to meet some of the surviving Japanese diplomats from my period, and the Gaimusho graciously arranged a meeting of a dozen senior diplomats and staff members. As it happened, my mentor and co-supervisor of my dissertation Professor Hugh Borton (Director of Columbia University's East Asian Institute, and later President of Haverford College) was in Tokyo, and he along with my colleague Jim Morley were invited to the meeting.
As is customary in Japan, a commemorative picture was taken at the end of the meeting, and it is one of my prized possessions, which I am happy to share.
The three Americans are seated front and center flanked by the most senior diplomats present, while other veteran Japanese diplomats are standing in the back row. In the front row (left to right) is Ambassador Mushakoji Kimitomo (whose signature is on the Anti-Comintern Pact concluded with Nazi Germany in 1936, and whose son Kinhide is a prominent scholar in the field of international affairs), Morley, yours truly, Professor Borton, former Foreign Minister Yoshizawa Kenkichi (in the Inukai cabinet, 1931- 1932, who happened to have been Consul-General in Honolulu during the First World War), and Amb. Matsushima Hajime (former personal secretary of Amb. Motono Ichiro in Russia during the war). In the back row (from right to left) is Kurihara, Amb. Tsubokami Teiji, former diplomat and then professor of international law at Chuo University Tamura Kosaku (who later translated into Japanese my Columbia M.A. thesis on the Russo-Japanese boundary, 1850-1875, and arranged to have it published by the Kajima Institute of International Peace in 1967), Amb. Hori Shinsuke, former Deputy Foreign Minister Amau Eiji (better known for the "Amau Declaration," a kind of Japanese Monroe Doctrine), Okamoto Suemasa (Minister to Sweden during the Pacific War), and Yuhashi Shigeto (who was interpreter for Amb. Sato Naotake in Moscow when Molotov delivered the Soviet declaration of war on Japan, and who later himself served as minister in Moscow).
The meeting was not very meaningful to me in terms of historical revelations, but it turned out to be useful as an introduction to Gaimusho OBs (Old Boys). By the way, OBs had special privileges at the Gaimusho. In the course of my research I came across copied files that had been incorporated back into the archives, when it was discovered that the originals were destroyed in the aftermath of surrender or lost. Apparently diplomat Matsumoto Tadao had a clerk copy numerous files for his own research or other needs, and these were discovered after the war in his Kamakura residence and brought back.
After six months of intensive research, I collected practically all the documentation I needed from the Japanese side. It was a rare opportunity having unlimited access to the Gaimusho archive, and I remember fondly the pleasure of working with people who did not mind our intrusion and cooperated in every possible way. On my visits to Tokyo, I often visit the Archives Section and Kurihara sensei, who remains alert in his early nineties.
The 1960 Ampo Riots
Michele (my wife) and I arrived in Tokyo with our one - year-old son David in the summer of 1959, after spending two years at Stanford, where I was h ead of the North Asia (Japan and Korea) Collection at the Hoover Institution and Visiting Assistant Professor in the departments of history and political science. I had a grant from the newly created Joint Committee on Contemporary China of the Social Science Research Council and the American Council of Learned Societies. My task was to collect materials in Japanese libraries, interview Japanese China scholars, and make a survey of the major Japanese institutions in the China field, with an additional assignment to do the same in Taiwan and Hong Kong. (Remember, at that time Americans could not travel to Mainland China.) The final product was to be a research guide to contemporary China (published eventually in 1967 by the Hoover Institution, a massive tome of over 700 pages).
Tokyo was in much better shape than it had been in 1951, and the standard of living was rising, but there were ominous clouds on the horizon, as the left opposition forces were dead set against the revision of the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty being negotiated in Washington. Never mind that the terms of the revised treaty were much more favorable to Japan than the original treaty signed in conjunction with the San Francisco Peace Treaty in 1951. In the meantime, President Dwight Eisenhower was finishing up his second term, and wanted to crown it with state visits and summits in Tokyo and Paris with the Soviet leader Nikita Khruschev. But it was not to be. The Paris summit was called off in the wake of the shooting down of an American U-2 spy plane over the Soviet Union, and the Tokyo visit became more and more problematic and was eventually cancelled, as anti-security pact demonstrations grew larger and larger, disrupting traffic and eventually besieging the National Diet building. By May, the situation had deteriorated, leading to violence, and culminating in the tragic death of a Todai undergraduate Kamba Michiko . At the same time, left-wing protesters began to call for the cancellation of the American president's visit. And after an ugly scene had erupted at the Haneda airport when Eisenhower's press secretary Jim Haggerty arrived with an advance party, the presidential trip was cancelled.
1960 USC Summer Session
Taking advantage of my presence in Tokyo, the University of Southern California (where I had spent four years researching the Russian impact on Japan, a project supported by the Ford Foundation) decided to sponsor a summer session in Tokyo and asked me to be its director. Original plans called for over a hundred students (primarily teachers from California and other western states) with several USC faculty members traveling to Japan on a passenger liner from San Francisco and by air. But as the news of demonstrations in Tokyo began to appear in the American press, often labeled "anti-American demonstrations," some students began to reconsider their plans.
I did my best to convince the prospective students back in Los Angeles that the demonstrat ions were hardly anti-American in the personal sense , and that it was perfectly safe, especially in the area of the Imperial Hotel where the students and faculty were booked to stay. I even wrote that I took my two-year-old son to watch the demonstrations. I also told them a story about my colleague Jim Morley's wife Bobbie who was caught in a bus surrounded by a huge crowd, some protesters carrying "Yankee go home" signs. But as she looked at one of the demonstrators carrying the sign, he sheepishly said: "Ai amu sori."
Having done research on the Japanese Communist Party, I was particularly interested in whether the student demonstrations were spontaneous or whether they were whipped up by "outside agitators." One of Columbia University's graduate students in Tokyo at the time was the late Leon Zolbrod, enrolled in the Department of Chinese Literature at Tokyo University. I asked him to observe the demonstrations and let me know how and by whom they were organized. A couple of days later, he excitedly told me that watching the demonstration getting started at Tokyo University was a lot of fun.
True to the hierarchical nature of Japanese society, the Tokyo University demonstration was led by the faculty in order of seniority, followed by graduate students, the undergrads, and finally members of assorted labor unions. Leon got so excited that he joined his classmates as they started to march on the National Diet. It was a holiday atmosphere, but he did notice some people he could not identify with bullhorns shouting slogans, and the student crowd repeating them with gusto. "Down with [Prime Minister] Kishi," "Down with the Japanese-American security treaty." I was appalled by Leon's joining the demonstration, and strongly cautioned him not to engage in such activity: "Leon, you are a guest in Japan, there are probably police surveillance cameras and if they capture you on film , you might be expelled from Japan for participating in political activities," and other words to that effect. My little experiment in field research had backfired on me.
Leon continued to describe their march. As the demonstrators passed a nearby fire station, the firemen cheered them on. There seemed to be no personal anti-Americanism at all. Still, when President Eisenhower cancelled his trip to Tokyo, so did most of our summer session students, except, of course, those students and faculty who were already on the passenger ship from which they could not turn back. The faculty who were supposed to come by air also had to cancel because of the drastic cut in enrollments. So I was faced with a difficult financial situation, and decided to attract foreign residents to our program.
I advertised in the Japan Times and other English-language papers, I rented some space at the International House of Japan where I could interview the prospective students, and I began to look around for available local academics. I got Father Dumoulin of Sophia University to teach a course on Japanese religion; a Japanese-born sociologist from Fisk, one of the black colleges in the South, who happened to be in Japan on a Fulbright fellowship to offer a course on the Japanese family; a prominent art historian Elise Grilli then teaching Japanese and Asian art at Sophia University; and several Japanese professors, including Tsurumi Shunsuke, who gave a series of guest lectures.
The USC summer session was scheduled to begin at Tokyo University on July 5, 1960. I made a number of trips to the University, checking out classrooms and other facilities. Of course, during the height of the demonstrations the campus was a mess: anti-government posters all over the place, students wearing headbands with revolutionary slogans, and the whole place littered with discarded placards, leaflets, and so on. However, on one of my visits toward the end of June, I was shocked to see the campus transformed: gone were the placards and the posters and the leaflets and the garbage; I saw scores of students dressed in freshly pressed uniforms neatly standing in line. What had happened? Who cleaned up the campus? How could these erstwhile revolutionaries suddenly stand meekly in line? The answer was soon obvious: it was employment interview day and each line had a direction stand with the name of the company on it--Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Hitachi, Hattori Watch Company and so on. I was amazed at the strength of Japanese society and its corporate structure. All these revolutionaries of yesterday were ready to become sarariman for "Japanese monopoly capitalism," as they used to describe Japan's economic structure. Many of us had thought that the new postwar generation would diverge from the generation of their fathers, "willing tools of the Japanese capitalist system." But here was proof that in Japan " plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose ."
Our classes at Todai went off beautifully. The students were stimulated intellectually, but the requirements were quite rigorous, which led one student to complain that her most vivid image of Japan was the color of the drapes in her room at the Imperial Hotel. As one extra curricular activity, I arranged for our group to be addressed by the American Ambassador, Douglas MacArthur II, a nephew of the famous general who had done so much to transform Japan into a peace-loving and more egalitarian society. The Ambassador delivered his standard speech on "Four Industrial Complexes in the World," wherein he placed Japan on a par with the United States, the Soviet Union, and Western Europe.
Upon the completion of the speech, I raised my hand hoping to get the Ambassador to answer some questions from our students, but my gesture was ignored, as apparently he did not take questions. Before his speech, however, MacArthur did relate to our group that he had received many letters from ordinary Japanese who wanted to make sure that Americans understood that many of the marchers (especially those from the provinces who were bussed in) did not want to participate in the anti-government, anti-security treaty demonstrations, but could not resist social pressure, and willy-nilly went along.
A Final Perspective
Some twenty years ago, I was invited to speak at the Ph.D. Kenkyukai, a group of international graduate students sponsored by the International House. Rather than having them sit through a presentation about one of my current research projects, I thought it would be more useful for them to think of broad methodological questions in Japanese studies. So I presented an idea of four generations of Japan specialists. I hypothesized that the date of their first encounter with Japan colored their perception of Japanese society. Thus, I spoke of the prewar group, such as Eddie Reischauer or Hugh Borton, whose Japan was an aggressive militaristic power. The next group of Japan specialists appeared during the Occupation and saw the Japanese at their weakest, poorest and most disillusioned. The third group arriving in the 1960s saw an economically recovering but politically divided society amidst some social unrest. The fourth group in the late 1970's and '80's encountered an affluent and self-confident Japan. (If I were to give this talk today, I would add a fifth group, arriving at the turn of the millennium and seeing the Japanese mired in an economic crisis and unsure what the future holds in the wake of the rise of China and the threat from an unstable and erratic North Korea.)
It would be interesting to test my hypothesis that one's first encounter with Japan will make an indelible impression of Japanese society.
I wish to thank Iwano Yuichi-san, the author of the book on music in Manchuria , for presenting me with a co py and for discussing his work in Tokyo , and also Professor Mariko Tamanoi of the Department of Anthropology at UCLA for bringing us together. This essay first appeared in the International House of Japan Bulletin Vol. 25, No. 1 (Spring 2005) and is reprinted here with the kind permission of the International House.
PETER BERTON (Ph.D., Columbia University and Research Psychoanalyst diploma, Los Angeles Psychoanalytic Institute) is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of International Relations at the University of Southern California, where for thirty years he was Coordinator for the Asia- Pacific Regional Studies Program. He also taught at Stanford and at UCLA, and in Japan, England, and Germany, and held research positions at Harvard, Columbia, and Tokyo universities and at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies in Kyoto. In 1991-92, he served on the Trilateral Task Force (U.S., Japan, Russia), to facilitate the resolution of the Russo-Japanese territorial dispute.
He is the author of over one hundred and fifty publications in six languages published in ten countries. Among them: The Japanese- Russian Territorial Dilemma; "The Japanese Communist Party: The 'Lovable' Party"; "New Stability and Security in the Asia-Pacific Region" (in Japanese); The Russian Impact on Japan; The Fateful Choice: Japan's Advance into Southeast Asia, 1939-1941 ; Contemporary China ; The Russo-Japanese Boundary 1850-1875 (in Japanese); and The Secret Russo-Japanese Alliance of 1916 .
Recent publications include: International Negotiation: Actors, Structure/Process Values (1999, co-editor and co-author); "The Psychology of Japan's Foreign Relations" (1999); Japan on the Psychologist's Couch (2000); Japan in the Asia- Pacific Balance of Power (2001); Guide to International Relations and Diplomacy (2002, contributor); and "The Chinese and Japanese Communist Parties: Three Decades of Discord and Reconciliation, 1966-1998" (2004).