Photo/Illutration Eiji Koizumi, right, holds a wall clock with his eldest son, Shuichi, and grandson Sota at his home in Hiroshima on Nov. 21. (Tabito Fukutomi)

HIROSHIMA--Passed down from his grandfather, a U.S.-made wooden clock that hangs on a living room wall at Eiji Koizumi’s home here has stood the test of time and an atomic bomb blast. 

The clock has been ticking and chiming for more than 100 years even after it sustained damage in the atomic bombing of Hiroshima on Aug. 6, 1945.

Koizumi, 73, who lives in Hiroshima’s Saeki Ward, hopes to pass the family heirloom on to his children and their descendants along with memories of his ancestors.

Measuring about 50 centimeters tall and 20 cm wide, the clock bears the logo of “Ansonia” in the lower part.

The clock chimes the number of hours when it strikes at the top of the hour.

It is a product of Ansonia Clock Co., a U.S. manufacturer established in the 1850s.

The exact production year is unknown. But based on the period the company was active, it was thought to be manufactured at least 100 years ago.

Koizumi was told that his grandfather Koichi, who had worked in the financial industry, bought the clock when he visited his relatives in the United States.

Koizumi needs to wind the clock three times a day because the hands gradually slow down.

When the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, the clock was hung in the living room of his family home that stood in what is now Hiroshima’s Nishi Ward.

The house was located about 6 kilometers from ground zero. Glass windows and “shoji” paper screens were shattered by the intense blast.

The clock fell to the floor and sustained a scratch about 10 cm long, which still remains on the side of the face.

Eiji wasn’t born yet, and he was told that his mother suffered burns on her face while breastfeeding his older brother in the veranda-like “engawa” porch.

However, the clock didn’t stop ticking.

Eiji’s father, Masaru, who was exposed to the atomic bomb near ground zero, never talked about his experience before he passed away.

When Masaru moved into Eiji’s home 26 years ago, he brought in his treasured clock and put it in the living room.

“I think he didn’t want to forget his memories no matter how painful they were and how difficult it was for him to talk about them,” Eiji said.

Masaru died four years later.

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The U.S.-made wooden wall clock at Eiji Koizumi’s home in Hiroshima has been ticking for more than 100 years. (Tabito Fukutomi)

Ever since, Eiji has been taking good care of the clock.

For Eiji, the clock is a reminder of the war and the atomic bomb. Each time he looks at it, he recalls how his mother’s hands felt and how the aroma of incense filled the streets when his mother took him to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park on Aug. 6 every year.

The clock is also associated with many of his fond and formative memories, such as when he studied for his high school entrance exam and when he had a date with Kyoko, 64, who is now his wife.

The clock has stopped only once, three months after his mother died 11 years ago.

Eiji wanted the clock to rest in peace with his parents, but he couldn’t shake a feeling of loss.

No sooner had he learned that there was a good “clock doctor” in Kure, also in Hiroshima Prefecture, than he visited there to ask for help.

The clock started ticking again after the spring was replaced.

Eiji’s two sons also grew up with the clock.

The eldest son, Shuichi, 39, a company employee who lives nearby, said, “It’s something that shows the misery of the atomic bombing in our daily lives. I want to pass it down for future generations.”

Shuichi’s son, Sota, visits Eiji once a month.

Hoping that his grandson will inherit it someday, Eiji tells the 8-year-old that his time will come to wind the clock.

Sota recently asked his grandfather what the word “blast” means.

In answering that question, Eiji thought he has a lot of memories about their ancestors to share with his grandson.

Sota comes to Eiji’s house when the clock’s chime rings twice on a Sunday afternoon.

Eiji makes sure to rewind the clock before he prepares “manju” steamed buns for Sota.

“I don’t want it to ever stop again,” he said.

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