日本小城市长的生死抉择

按：今天在WSJ看到一篇感人至深的文章，特录于此。

日本小城市长的生死抉择
2011年 04月 13日 08:52

在那场毁灭性的地震撼动陆前高田市(Rikuzentakata)市政厅之前的几分钟，市长刀羽太(Futoshi Toba)（本文所有人名均为音译）正在享受一个安静的周五下午时光。自从担任这座沿海小城的市长以来，他已经几乎连续不间断地工作了一个月。

3月11日下午2点40分，他给妻子久美(Kumi)打了个电话，提议晚上带两个年幼的儿子去吃烧烤。她答应马上给他写电子邮件回复去不去。

这个谈话很简短，但是，命运有时候不给人细说的机会。

2点46分，距日本东北部沿海约60英里的海底发生的9级强震使陆前高田市猛烈晃动起来，毁坏了电力和通讯设备。此后不久，一堵超过40英尺高的黑色水墙冲过了20英尺高的海堤，涌入市中心。

刀羽太和几十位本地居民急忙冲上市政厅的房顶，这是一座位于市中心的钢骨混凝土结构的四层建筑。海啸引发的洪水漫过了这座建筑物的顶层。

卡车和公共汽车被巨浪抛掷得来回翻滚。在大浪冲击下，房屋与地基分离，漂向大海，屋里的人们惊叫着寻求帮助。

刀羽太说，“当我回首遥望自家方向时，只能看见所有的房屋都被冲毁。木头碎裂的声音响彻天际。”

刀羽太现年46岁，他的两个儿子——12岁的大河(Taiga)和10岁的奏多(Kanato)——当时正在位于山顶的学校里，得以躲过了海啸。但是，他的妻子像往常一样呆在地势更接近海平面的家中。

他说，“我曾想过抛开所有人，不顾一切地跳进车里，冲回家救她。但我真的不能这么做。”他解释说，作为市长所肩负的职责要求他把同事们带到安全地带。他当时一直在想，但愿她能逃脱险境。

当海浪最终开始退却时，陆前高田市已经被毁坏得面目全非，破烂的汽车、碎裂的木头和扭曲的钢筋交织在一起。银行被冲走了，加油站没了，杂货店没了，医院也没了。有超过2300人死亡或失踪，占当地人口的十分之一。

一个月后，刀羽太发现自己需要应付令人左右为难的复杂局面并肩负重任，因为日本要努力从现代历史上最严重的一场自然灾害中恢复过来，日本的领导者们正在讨论如何（甚至是否要）重建这个经济已经在急剧下滑的地区。刀羽太和其他当地政治家做出的决策很有可能就决定了遭受沉重打击的东北部沿海地区的命运：究竟是顽强地活下去并繁荣发展，还是从此一蹶不振？

在以往的天灾（比如1995年摧毁港口城市神户的大地震，还有1923年造成东京地区逾10万人死亡的大地震）过后，日本很快进行了重建。但是，分布在崎岖海岸线上的陆前高田及其他乡镇的情况和这些大城市很不一样。

在灾难发生前，这个地区早就陷入了困境：年轻人去其他地方谋求更好的生活，留下的只是一些老年人和夕阳产业。对这个地区持悲观看法的人认为，投资重建这些江河日下的城镇不符合经济学原理。

在最近的一个周六的下午，刀羽太正在设在该市一所学校的中央厨房内的一个临时指挥所开展工作。他说，“在这种情况下，领导人确实很难当。我们必须一切从头开始。”

刀羽太经常在指挥中心门外的人行道上来回踱步，穿着一身借来的衣服（一件市政工人的制服、米色的风衣和配套的长裤，再加上一双黑色的锐步运动鞋），抽着越来越稀缺的超醇万宝路(Marlboro Ultralights)，他不时拿起挂在脖子上的手机，联络中央和地方官员，努力寻求帮助。

到目前为止他取得的成果包括：为陆前高田市剩余的一些汽车讨来能够多跑几天的汽油，或者为依然无家可归的1万名市民争取生活补给品。从某种角度来看，这些成果只是突显了摆在他面前的任务的艰巨性。

尽管刀羽太全身心地投入到改善这座城市悲惨境况的工作中，但这并不能使他完全忘记自己和久美、大河及奏多一家人的生活发生的剧变。两个孩子目前和刀羽太的叔叔呆在一起。身为市长的父亲尽量抽空去看望儿子，但是在大多数夜晚，他都是睡在临时指挥中心办公桌旁边的地板上。

他也没有回过位于市区的家中，只是在灾难发生后匆匆地望了一眼。在那么远的距离下，他只能依稀辨认出他家房屋的外框依然挺立，但有另一所房子的屋顶搭在他家房屋的屋顶上。

在他家的房屋里面，充满了令人痛苦的印迹：在一楼的衣橱里，挂着一件沾满泥浆的外套和一些领带。地板上散落着照片，其中包括身穿灰色西装的刀羽和久美在结婚当天的照片。在另一张被污泥弄脏的照片中，他的妻子久美身穿袖子是青绿色的白色T恤、黑发齐肩，笑容满面，臂弯里揽着他们的一个孩子。

几周以来，刀羽太一直非常繁忙，都没有时间去停尸所看看久美是否在那儿。其实他也很害怕自己可能看到的一幕。

在上个月月底的时候，这位市长说，“作为一个丈夫，我想去寻找我的妻子，但我必须领导灾后恢复工作。这里的许多人都面临相同的境况。”

陆前高田市有人居住的历史已经有一千年了。穿过一个被群山环绕的平原，就可以看到大海，当地著名的特产有扇贝、海胆和一种品种特别的牡蛎，这种牡蛎在东京的餐馆可以卖到五美元一只。在沙质海滩边是一片松树林，曾被日本政府列为日本最美的100处景点之一。

这座城市历史上也曾发生过海啸。1960年由智利地震引起的海啸导致当地八人丧生，海水淹没了该市靠近海滩的地区。

但是，从来没有哪一次海啸能与3月11日发生的这一次相提并论。

那些冲出门警告居民的市政官员被海浪冲走了。一位市长顾问试图带着一位老奶奶一起转移，但他很快就意识到背着她跑不快，两人都无法逃生。他只好把她放在市政厅二楼的台阶上，抱歉地说，“对不起，奶奶。”然后匆忙跑上顶楼。后来，他再也没有见到这位老奶奶。

海啸冲垮了市区被当作紧急避难所的一个运动中心的后墙，在这里寻求避难的几十个人几乎全部被淹死。

两位消防员爬上消防局屋顶的一个了望塔。最终，在夜幕降临前，直升飞机救起了这两名男子，并将其他一些幸存者从市区的屋顶转移到安全地带。多处煤气罐爆炸，引发了熊熊烈火。

下午7点左右，天开始下雪。一些幸存者收集碎木块，燃起一堆篝火取暖，同时也是向救援人员发出信号。市长和他的助手们围在一台收音机前，收听最新的灾情公报。

余震持续了一整夜，咆哮的海浪一次次地涨起又落下。刀羽太称，他担心整座建筑物会倒塌。大家只能祈祷白天快点来临。

黎明时分，陆前高田市开始统计令人震惊的伤亡人数。它是日本受灾最严重的城市之一。在大约23,000位居民当中，有超过1,100人被证实死亡，有近1,200人失踪，估计已经死亡。在一个体育馆设立的临时停尸所里有成百上千具遗体还没有被确认身份。

警察局长、市议会的两名议员和三位学校的高级官员在海啸中丧生。三分之一的市政工人遇难。

许多幸存者质疑自己是否应该继续留在这里。现年55岁的建筑工人须藤明(Akira Suto)说，他无法忘记，当他和82岁的母亲携手跑出家门试图逃走时，冰冷的海浪墙将他打翻在地，冲开了他和母亲紧握在一起的两只手。

他说，母亲在被海浪卷走前喘息着说，“一切都结束了。”她的遗体至今仍未找到。

现在，须藤明和他的妻子及两个孩子暂住在一所学校体育馆内的一个紧急避难所。他说，他想留在陆前高田市。但事实上，他不知道这是不是有可能。

就连商业社团的中流砥柱都在动摇。

Suisen清酒酿造厂的总裁今野保彦(Yasuhiko Konno)说，他尚未决定是否在市区的场址重建他公司的酿酒厂。海浪将酿酒厂冲击得千疮百孔，用来储藏清酒的巨大绿色金属罐被冲得四处漂散，最远的漂到了三英里外的地方。Suisen是陆前高田市规模最大的企业之一。

现年64岁的今野保彦是本地人。他说，“我们在这里建厂是为了盈利，我不得不怀疑陆前高田市在遭受如此严重的损伤之后还能否复原。在四周别无他物的情况下建造一家清酒厂显然是不智之举。”

市长刀羽太将劝说人们留下视为其工作当中很重要的一个部分。他希望能从中央和县级政府获得足够的帮助，在具有带头作用的市民离开前向他们展示重建进展。

他一直在努力劝说将于今年退休的公务员推迟卸任时间，以确保有足够的人力开展重建工作。

刀羽太说，“这座城市的规模可能会比以前小一些。”他的妻子不在了，但他的儿子还活着，他希望当他们长大时，陆前高田市依然还在。

他说，“当我看着儿子们的小脸蛋时，我知道自己必须继续坚持下去。这是我的使命，我必须去完成那些需要做的工作。”

18年前当刀羽太来到陆前高田市时，他做梦也想不到会有今天这样的遭遇。

刀羽太出生在东京附近，在28岁时迁居到这座海边小城。低迷的经济使身为电脑程式师的他很难在首都谋生。他选择陆前高田市是因为这里是他父亲的出生地和家园，他说他很快就爱上了这里的自然美景和悠闲自在的感觉。

刚到这座小城，他就在一家本地的家禽加工厂找到了工作。在这里，他遇见了久美，她出生在北边的另一座海滨小城。

久美比他小七岁，拥有优雅美丽的容貌和一头乌黑的秀发，看起来比她的实际年龄还要年轻一些。当他们在一家珠宝店挑选订婚戒指时，一位店员问他是不是在帮女儿买戒指。

他说，“即使是现在，她看起来也就20多岁的样子。”

刀羽太回忆道，她喜欢收藏美国火皇(Fire-King)古董玻璃器皿，还喜欢制作手工艺品。她会制作压花图案的皮革手机链，还和她的朋友一起在临时摊位出售这些小饰品。

她从未质疑过她丈夫做出的成为一位政治家的决定，尽管她实际上并不喜欢政治。他说，她选择了容忍和迁就。

刀羽太说，从政甚至也不是他本人的想法。他的父亲在政界工作，在几年前的一次市议会选举之时，他父亲帮忙组织造势，要他出来参选。有一天当他回到家时，发现有150来个老街坊看着他，然后开始鼓掌，他都不知道发生了什么事。

刀羽老先生大约在10年前去世。他向他的儿子保证，他不需要做很多事，只需张贴一些竞选海报就可以。但是他还没来得及看到儿子参与竞选以及向人群发表讲话的场面。

进入市议会后，刀羽太把闲暇时间用来走访街坊四邻，和他们闲谈，关注他们的需求。

然而，他很快意识到，如果他只是市议会的一名成员，他的办事能量就会受到限制。他说，“我总是在想，有朝一日，即使只是当个小村长，我也要按照我所认为的最佳方式来打造它。”

他当了几年的副市长。然后，市长生病了，决定卸任。当刀羽太告诉妻子他想竞选市长时，她只说了一句，“好的，我理解你。”

刀羽太的竞选口号是消减该市数年大举支出之后累积的债务。他希望将陆前高田市的海滨发展为度假胜地和退休养老胜地，以吸引更多富裕的日本老年居民。

在2月份赢得选举后，他就开始忙于准备市政预算，礼节性地拜会了当地的达官显贵。他知道自己陪伴妻子的时间不多，但总觉得以后会有时间的。

在灾难发生后，刀羽太的市长日程暂时被放在了一边。最初几天，他只能努力让自己保持平静。他不知道他的妻子在哪里，但是，考虑到此次灾难带来的破坏程度，以及成百上千位被埋在瓦砾堆下的失踪人员，他不能去寻找自己的妻子。

在重重残骸物的阻隔下，他无法靠近自己的家，而且有政府的搜救队在对这个地区进行地毯式搜索。

在供电中断、救济品严重匮乏以及成千上万的灾民急需救助的情况下，这位元市长决定把精力集中在他所能做的事情上：帮助幸存者。

刀羽太请求他的朋友们制作尽可能多的饭团并分发出去。他要求士兵清理道路，这样更多的救灾物资就可以被运送进来。几周后回想起来，他并不能确定有时候自己在做什么，大部分回忆是一片模糊。

在灾难发生一周后，食品和饮用水开始更加定期地运抵当地，还有军队帮助分发。但是，对牙刷和纸尿裤这些基本生活用品的需求仍然得不到满足。

当时，刀羽太说，任何关于恢复该市渔业或其他重建工作的想法看起来都遥不可及。燃眉之急是获得汽油，以及确保老年人有足够的药品。

为了使政府官员相信他需要更多的説明，刀羽太邀请东京的一位议员在该市的一个紧急疏散中心过夜。这位议员开始抱怨国家的救援工作进展缓慢。当刀羽太提出邀请日本首相在灾难发生三周后访问陆前高田市时，这位议员考虑了一下，说道，“现在，他会来的。”

随着日子的推移，一套新的工作程式开始形成。每天下午，刀羽太都会心情沉重地就该市的最新伤亡资料与记者召开简短的新闻发布会，更新已经找到遗体的遇难者名单。他没有太多的时间去想他的妻子，甚至孩子，仅仅是有时会和他们通个电话。

市政府的幸存人员在一所学校的厨房里成立了指挥部，征用了一些电脑来办公。消防和员警部门的临时驻地则设在停车场一带。由于没有自来水，就在后面挖掘了一条沟渠作为公共厕所。

刀羽太不停地给县级官员打电话，敦促他们开始建设临时房屋，这一点对于防止居民流失至关重要。日本首相菅直人(Naoto Kan)一度要求刀羽太也要做好准备，暂时将居民转移到受灾程度较轻的内陆城市，但是刀羽太拒绝了这个要求。

刀羽太说，“我们有联系非常紧密的社区。我们需要把人聚集在一起。”

3月26日，建设活动终于开始了，这使陆前高田市成为最先开始建造临时房屋的城市之一。一大群建筑工人将首批带有室内抽水马桶和取暖装置的36间活动板房组装在一起，很快就竖立在作为紧急避难所的一所中学门前。有1,000多人参加了市政府组织的抽签，以决定房屋的归属。那些幸运的极少数中签者可以在4月10日搬进这些活动板房。

刀羽太还取得了其他一些小小的胜利：在和当地一家制衣厂的老板会晤后，他获得了该厂捐赠的一批女士内衣，这正是暂住在避难所内的女士们所急需的东西。

当紧急救助的急迫性开始下降后，陆前高田市面临的无比艰难的挑战就变得显而易见了。

该市的桥梁、道路和铁路网都被黑浪破坏或损毁。市区电网被摧毁。一家在10年前耗资约2亿美元建造的污水处理厂消失得无影无踪。耗费巨资修建的宽大的海啸防护墙曾经保护过这座城市，但现在已经沦为废墟。在防护墙得到重建之前，可能要采取其他替代措施来保护这座城市与海平面齐平的地区了。

存放在市政厅的几乎所有档资料都被毁坏。合同、设计图和最近的缴税凭证都被冲走了。官员们不得不根据从游客手册上撕下来的地图评估损失，修理城市道路和桥梁。

一些市政建筑（包括市政厅、一所消防局和一个运动中心）依然挺立不倒，但也被严重损坏，必须予以拆除。刀羽太正在努力筹集爆破所需的资金。他说，如果由市政府自己来出这笔钱，那么就没有任何余钱用来建造新设施了。

自1970年以来，陆前高田市的人口一直在不断缩减，超过三分之一的市民是65岁以上的老人，而整个日本的老年人比例为20%。过去，该市为了吸引更多游客而兴建了一些项目，这笔支出所带来的债务负担将使重建计划受到限制。被此次海啸冲毁的一座贝壳博物馆就是此类项目之一。

当地官员还没有开始计算总的损失。虽然东京方面可能会帮助筹集重建资金，但资金到位的具体时间和具体金额还不得而知。

重建需要创新精神。一个周六的下午，刀羽太一边用手指梳理着日渐稀疏的头发一边说道，“我们需要采取一些激烈的举措。”过度的劳累使他的面孔看起来无精打采。

他说，一个选择是把市区周围一座高山的山顶推平，以建造更多的山顶住宅区，然后用多下来的泥土把整个市区的海拔高度提升60英尺。但现在还不知道由谁来付这笔钱。

刀羽太早些时为陆前高田市设定的发展旅游业的宏伟计划看起来是更加不可能实现了。矗立在白色沙滩边的数万棵松树曾使陆前高田市成为旅游胜地，但现在都被海啸冲毁了，只剩下了孤零零的一棵。

在劝说居民留下的过程中，这位市长找到了一些同盟者，现年35岁的佐佐木隆(Takashi Sasaki)就是其中之一。佐佐木隆在几年前离开陆前高田市，到东京找了份电脑系统工程师的工作。但是，和大部分同伴不一样的是，他于去年返回家乡，帮助他父亲经营一个家族印刷企业。

3月11日，佐佐木隆用他的数码相机将海啸视频上传到互联网。当他看到海浪如此可怕之后，就和父亲松尾(Matsuo)跑进了市政厅。然后，他们和市长一起在市政厅的顶楼度过了一夜。

佐佐木隆的母亲、姨母和祖母都遇难了。佐佐木隆称，尽管搜寻了好几天，但他没能找到他家的房屋和家族印刷厂留下的任何痕迹。

佐佐木隆称，尽管失去了一切，他还是决定留在这座城市，并参与重建。

在海啸发生一个月后，刀羽太的努力终于取得了明显的成果，因为有越来越多的市民在他的带领下开始恢复正常的生活。上周，这座小城重新开设了第一家派出所，这种小型员警站是大多数日本社区必须配备的机构。

岩手银行(Bank of Iwate)在附近的一个拖车上开设了一家临时分行，每天营业四个小时。在街道拐角处的一个预制棚里，该市的商会开设了一个办公室，以帮助当地企业。

然而，在这座城市地势较低的盆地，仍然有数量惊人的工作要做。一些碎石堆已经被移开，以便为汽车和运送土方的设备开辟道路。但是，陆前高田市的大部分地方看起来还是像一个巨大的垃圾填埋场。

4月5日，这位市长接到了一个能让他把所有的一切都抛诸脑后的电话。停尸所里有一具遗体很像他的妻子久美，此前一天正是久美的39岁生日。这位女士的遗体是在离他们家约2,000英尺的高地被发现的。

接到电话后的几个小时，刀羽太一直没有勇气离开办公室。最后，他终于来到了停尸所。遗体已经被严重损坏，但确实是久美。

他不知道该如何把这个消息告诉他的两个儿子，他不愿意让他们看到这个样子的母亲，不希望他们以这种方式来记住他们的母亲。他说，“对他们来说，她就像是一位朋友。由于我总是很忙，他们有问题的时候总是跑去找他们的母亲。”

站在妻子的遗体前，他为自己未能去找她而向她道歉。他告诉她，作为市长所肩负的责任使他不能去找她

事后，刀羽太说，“每当我想到这一点时，真的会质疑自己到底是一个什么样的人。”

Gordon Fairclough / Daisuke Wakabayashi

（本文版权归道琼斯公司所有，未经许可不得翻译或转载。）

http://cn.wsj.com/gb/20110413/bas085401.asp

Minutes before a violent earthquake convulsed City Hall, Futoshi Toba was enjoying a quiet Friday afternoon after a month of nearly nonstop work since becoming mayor of this small coastal city.

He called his wife, Kumi, at 2:40 p.m., March 11, to suggest they take their two young sons to a barbecue place for dinner. She promised that she'd email him soon to let him know.

The conversation wasn't much, but fate doesn't always allow for eloquence.

At 2:46, tremors from the magnitude-9 earthquake about 60 miles offshore convulsed Rikuzentakata, knocking out electricity and phones. Soon afterwards, a wall of black water more than 40 feet high smashed through the 20-foot high seawall and poured into the heart of the city.

Mr. Toba and dozens of local residents scrambled up the stairs to the roof of the four-story City Hall, a steel-reinforced concrete building downtown. The tsunami sent water surging as high as the building's top floor.

Trucks and buses were tossed end over end. Houses, pulled loose from their foundations, floated toward the sea, the people inside screaming for help.

'When I looked back in the direction of my home, I just saw all the houses being crushed,' Mr. Toba said. 'The sound of the wood splintering was so loud.'

Mr. Toba's sons, Taiga, 12, and Kanato, 10, were at a hilltop school, and escaped the tsunami. But his wife was at home, closer to sea level, as she usually was during the day.

'I considered just ignoring everyone, hopping in my car, and rushing to get her. But I really couldn't do that,' he said, explaining that his duties as mayor required him to lead his colleagues to safety. 'I was thinking the whole time: 'I hope she was able to get away.'' By the time the waves finally started to recede, Rikuzentakata had been reduced to a tangle of smashed cars, shattered wood and twisted steel. The banks were washed away. Gas stations, gone. Grocery stores, gone. Hospital, gone.

More than 2,300 people -- a tenth of the population here -- were dead or missing.

A month later, Mr. Toba finds himself in a role of bewildering complexity and responsibility, as Japan struggles to recover from the worst natural disaster of its modern history and its leaders debate how -- and even whether -- to rebuild a part of the country that was already in steep decline. The decisions Mr. Toba and other local politicians make now may well determine whether the hard-hit areas on the northeast coast survive and thrive, or never recover.

After past disasters -- the 1995 earthquake that wrecked the port city of Kobe and the 1923 quake that killed more than 100,000 around Tokyo -- Japan rebuilt quickly. But the situation in Rikuzentakata and other communities along the craggy shoreline here is far different.

The region had been in trouble long before the disaster: Many young people had gone in search of a better life elsewhere, leaving behind an aging population and dying industries. Pessimists question the economic logic of investing to rebuild its shrinking towns and cities.

'It's hard to be a leader in a situation like this,' the 46-year-old Mr. Toba said one recent Saturday afternoon, as he worked from a temporary command post in the office of the city schools' central kitchen. 'We are going to have to start again from scratch.'

Dressed in borrowed clothes -- a city-worker uniform with a beige windbreaker, matching pants and a pair of black Reebok sneakers -- Mr. Toba can often be found pacing the pavement outside his command center, smoking a dwindling supply of Marlboro Ultralights and cajoling national and regional officials over a mobile phone that hangs from a strap around his neck.

His successes so far -- like scrounging enough fuel to keep some of Rikuzentakata's remaining cars running a few days more, or securing supplies for the 10,000 citizens who remain homeless here -- in some ways only underscore the daunting scale of the task ahead.

Mr. Toba's preoccupation with the town's misery can't completely obliterate what has happened to his own life with Kumi and Taiga and Kanato. The boys are staying with Mr. Toba's uncle. The mayor sees them when he can, but most nights he sleeps on the floor beside his desk in the makeshift command center.

He hasn't returned to his house downtown, either, aside from a quick glimpse soon after the disaster. He could only get close enough to make out that its shell was still standing, but the roof of another home had come to rest atop it.

Inside, his home is filled with painful reminders: A mud-covered jacket and some ties hang in a first-floor closet. The floor is littered with photos, including pictures of a younger Mr. Toba in a gray suit with Kumi on their wedding day. In another mud-stained picture, his wife -- in a white T-shirt with turquoise sleeves and black shoulder-length hair -- wraps her arms around one of the children and laughs.

For weeks, Mr. Toba had been too busy to visit the morgue to see if Kumi was there. He also dreaded what he might find.

'As a husband, I'd like to go search for my wife, but I need to lead the way on the recovery effort,' the mayor said late last month. 'Many people here are in the same situation.'

Rikuzentakata has been inhabited for 1,000 years. Spread out across a plain surrounded by mountains running down to the sea, it drew fame for its scallops, sea urchins and a special breed of oysters that sold for as much as $5 a piece in Tokyo restaurants. A wooded area with pine trees along its sandy beach was once declared by the government to be one of Japan's 100 most beautiful sights.

The city also has a history of tsunamis. One touched off in 1960 by an earthquake in Chile killed eight people and inundated parts of the city near the beach.

But there had never been anything remotely like the waves that struck on March 11.

City officials who had rushed out to warn residents were washed away. One of the mayor's advisers tried carrying an elderly woman, but quickly realized he wouldn't be able to run fast enough with her on his back. He left her behind on a second-floor stair landing in City Hall. 'Sorry grandma,' he said, before dashing up to the roof. He never saw her again.

The tsunami blew out the rear wall of a downtown sports center that had been designated as an emergency refuge, drowning nearly all of the dozens of people who sought shelter there.

Two firemen clung to a watch tower atop a fire station. Helicopters eventually rescued the men and pulled some other survivors to safety from downtown rooftops before darkness fell. Exploding gas cylinders sent up plumes of flame.

At around 7 p.m., it started to snow. Some survivors gathered up debris and started a bonfire for warmth and to provide a beacon for any rescuers. The mayor and his aides huddled around a radio, listening to news bulletins.

Aftershocks continued through the night, and roiling waves swept in and out. Mr. Toba said he feared the entire building would collapse. 'We were just praying for daylight.'

At dawn, Rikuzentakata began to assess the staggering human toll. It was one of the worst-hit Japanese cities. Of its roughly 23,000 inhabitants, more than 1,100 are confirmed dead. Nearly 1,200 are missing and presumed killed. Hundreds of bodies in the temporary morgue set up in a gymnasium remain unidentified.

The police chief, two members of the city council and the three top school officials perished in the tsunami. One-third of city workers have died.

Many of the survivors are questioning whether to stay. Akira Suto, a 55-year-old construction worker, said he can't forget the wall of icy ocean water as it pitched him head over heels, breaking his grip on his 82-year-old mother as the pair ran from their home, trying to flee.

'It's over,' his mother gasped, before she was dragged away by the waves, he said. Her body still hasn't been recovered.

Mr. Suto, who is staying with his wife and two children at an emergency shelter in a school gym, said he'd like to remain in Rikuzentakata. 'In reality, I don't know if it will be possible,' he said.

Even pillars of the business community are wavering.

Yasuhiko Konno, president of the Suisen sake brewery that was one of Rikuzentakata's biggest employers, said he hasn't decided whether to rebuild his company's factory on the downtown site. Waves punched holes in the brewery and scattered its giant green metal sake tanks as far as three miles away.

'We are here to make a profit, and I have to wonder if Rikuzentakata can come back from this level of damage,' said Mr. Konno, a 64-year-old native of the city. 'It doesn't make sense to build a sake factory with nothing else around.'

Mayor Toba sees it as an essential part of his job to persuade people to stay. He hopes to wheedle enough support from the national and prefecture governments to show progress rebuilding before leading citizens move away.

He has been trying to persuade civil servants set to retire this year to delay stepping down to ensure he has enough manpower to rebuild.

'The city might be smaller than it was before,' Mr. Toba said. His wife was missing, but his sons were alive, and he wanted to be sure Rikuzentakata would still be there when they got older.

'When I see the faces of my sons, I know I just have to keep going,' he said. 'This is my destiny, and I just have to do what needs to be done.'

None of this is what Mr. Toba had in mind when he came to Rikuzentakata 18 years ago.

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Born near Tokyo, he moved to the coastal community when he was 28. Tough economic times had made it hard for him to earn a living as a computer programmer in the capital. He chose Rikuzentakata because it was his father's birthplace and home, and he said he quickly came to love its natural beauty and laid-back feeling.

When he first arrived in town, he found work at a local poultry-processing company. It was there that he met Kumi, a native of another small city up the coast.

She was seven years his junior, with delicate features and dark black hair, and looked younger than her age. When they were picking out engagement rings in a jewelry store, Mr. Toba recalled, a clerk asked if he was shopping for his daughter.

'Even now, she looks like she's in her 20s,' he said.

She collected vintage American Fire-King glassware and enjoyed making handicrafts, Mr. Toba recalled. She made leather trinkets with embossed designs to hang on cell phones, which she sold at temporary shops with her friends.

She never questioned her husband's decision to become a politician -- though she didn't really like it. 'She put up with it,' he said.

It wasn't really even Mr. Toba's idea, he said. His father was in politics, and when a city council election came up several years ago, his father helped organize efforts to draft him. He came home one day and there were about '150 old folks from the neighborhood who turned to me and started clapping -- I didn't know what was going on.'

The elder Mr. Toba, who died about a decade ago, promised his son he wouldn't need to do much, just put up some posters. But before he knew it, the son was campaigning and talking to crowds.

Once he was on the city council, he spent his free time walking through neighborhoods, chatting with people and looking after their needs.

He soon realized, though, that as long as he was just another council member, his ability to get things done was limited. 'I always thought that one day, even if it's being just a village head, I wanted to be able to shape a town in the way I thought best,' he said.

For years, he served as deputy mayor. Then the mayor became ill and decided not to run again. When Mr. Toba told his wife he wanted the job, 'she just said, 'OK, I understand.''

Mr. Toba's campaign called for reducing the city's debt after years of heavy spending. He hoped to turn Rikuzentakata's beachfront into a popular resort and retirement area to attract more of Japan's affluent older residents.

After his victory in February, he got busy preparing the city budget and making courtesy calls on local dignitaries. He wasn't spending much time his wife, he knew. But there would be time for that later.

Mr. Toba's mayoral agenda went by the wayside when the disaster struck. In the first few days, he just tried to stay calm. He didn't know where his wife was, but given the scale of the destruction -- and the hundreds of missing people buried beneath the rubble -- he couldn't do much about it.

So much wreckage blocked his home that he couldn't get near it, and government search-and-rescue teams were combing the area.

There was no electricity, few relief supplies. With thousands of people in desperate need, the mayor decided to focus on what he could do: Help survivors.

Mayor Toba pleaded with friends to make as many rice balls as possible and give them out. He asked soldiers to clear roads so more supplies could get in. Looking back several weeks later, he's not sure what he did some of the time: Much of it was a blur.

A week after the disaster, food and water began arriving more regularly along with troops to distribute aid. But basic needs, for such things as toothbrushes and diapers, still weren't being met.

Any talk of reviving the city's fishing industry or other rebuilding efforts was 'far, far off,' Mr. Toba said, a week after the disaster. The most pressing needs were getting gasoline and making sure the elderly had enough medicine.

To persuade government officials that he needed more help, Mr. Toba invited lawmakers from Tokyo to spend the night in one of the city's emergency evacuation centers. He complained about how slow national relief efforts were. When asked about a visit by the prime minister to Rikuzentakata three weeks after the disaster, he rolled his eyes and said: 'Now, he comes.'

As the days passed, a routine set in. Every afternoon, Mr. Toba somberly briefed reporters on the city's latest casualty numbers, and handed out updated lists of dead citizens whose bodies had been discovered. There wasn't much time to think about his wife, or even his kids, though he spoke to the boys sometimes on the phone.

The surviving members of his administration set up their command post in a school kitchen using commandeered computers. Temporary quarters for the fire and police departments were set up across the parking lot. Since there was no running water, a trench latrine was dug out back.

Mayor Toba burned up the phones calling and pressuring prefectural officials to begin construction of temporary homes -- critical to keeping citizens from drifting away. At one point, Prime Minister Naoto Kan told Mr. Toba he might as well plan to temporarily move his people to less damaged cities inland -- but Mr. Toba refused.

'We have very tight-knit communities. We need to keep people together,' Mr. Toba said.

On March 26, construction finally began, making Rikuzentakata one of the first cities to start building temporary homes. The first 36 modular apartments with indoor plumbing and heating were hammered together by an army of construction workers and went up quickly in front of a middle school that served as an emergency shelter. More than 1,000 people entered the city lottery to receive a home.

Mr. Toba scored other small victories: After he met with the owner of a local clothing-manufacturing firm, the town received a donation of women's underwear, desperately needed by women living in emergency shelters.

As the immediate tasks of emergency assistance started to fade, the scale of challenges facing Rikuzentakata became painfully apparent.

Bridges, roadways and the city's rail connection were damaged or destroyed by the black waves. The power grid downtown was wiped out. A waste-water treatment plant -- built a decade ago for about $200 million -- disappeared without a trace. The massive, and expensive, tsunami defense wall that once shielded the city was reduced to ruins. It will likely have to be replaced to protect the sea-level sections of the city before they can be rebuilt.

Nearly all of the city's paper records, stored in City Hall, were destroyed. Contracts, blueprints and recent city-tax payments were all swept away. Officials have to rely on maps ripped from tourist brochures as they assess damage and repair city roads and bridges.

Some city-owned buildings -- including City Hall, a fire station and a sports center -- remain standing, but are so badly damaged that they will have to be torn down. Mr. Toba is trying to find money for the demolition. If the city has to pay itself, there won't be any money left to build new facilities, he said.

Rikuzentakata's population had already been shrinking steadily since 1970, and more than a third of the city's residents are over 65 years old, compared with about 20% in Japan as a whole. Any reconstruction plans will be limited by debts from past spending on schemes to attract more tourists. One such project, a seashell museum, was demolished by the tsunami.

Local officials haven't begun to calculate the total cost of the damage. And while it seems likely that Tokyo will help foot the bill for reconstruction, the timing and amount of any money remain distressingly unclear.

Rebuilding will take creativity. 'We will need to do something drastic,' Mr. Toba said one Saturday afternoon, running his fingers through his thinning hair, his face sagging with exhaustion.

One option, he said, would be to bulldoze the top of one of the mountains that ring the downtown to create more hilltop residential areas, and then use the extra earth to raise the level of the city center by about 60 feet. But it's unclear who would pay for that.

Mr. Toba's earlier big idea for Rikuzentakata -- tourism -- seems especially unlikely. The tens of thousands of pine trees that once lined Rikuzentakata's white sandy beach, making it a tourist destination, were destroyed by the tsunami. Only one remains standing.

In his quest to get residents to stay, the mayor has found some allies. One is 35-year-old Takashi Sasaki, who abandoned Rikuzentakata years ago to work in Tokyo as a computer-systems engineer. Unlike most of his peers, he decided to return home last year and help his father run a family printing business.

On March 11, Mr. Sasaki was using his digital camera to stream video of the tsunami to the Internet. When he saw the size of the waves, he and his father, Matsuo, raced into City Hall, where they spent the night on the upper floors along with the mayor.

Mr. Sasaki's mother, aunt and grandmother died. Despite days of searching, Mr. Sasaki said he hasn't found any trace of his home or the family print shop.

Even though they lost everything, Mr. Sasaki said he's committed to staying in the city. 'I want to stay here and rebuild,' he said.

A month after the tsunami, the fruits of Mr. Toba's efforts are evident, as a growing number of citizens follow his lead, picking up the pieces of their lives. Last week, the town reopened its first koban, a small neighborhood police station, which is a staple of most Japanese communities.

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Nearby, the Bank of Iwate has opened a temporary branch in a trailer for four hours a day. Around the corner, in a prefabricated shed, the city's Chamber of Commerce has opened an office to help local businesses. The lucky few who won a slot in Rikuzentakata's temporary homes can move in on Sunday.

In the town's lower basin, though, a staggering amount of work remains. Mounds of rubble have been plowed aside to create roads for cars and earth-moving equipment. But much of Rikuzentakata still resembles a massive landfill.

On Tuesday, the mayor got a call that would push all that into the background. There was a body in the morgue that resembled his wife, whose 39th birthday had been the day before. The woman's body had been found about 2,000 feet uphill from their home.

For several hours, Mr. Toba couldn't get away from the office. At last, he made his way down to the morgue. The body was badly damaged. But it was Kumi.

He debated what to tell his sons, and thought he didn't want to let them see her like that. It wasn't how he wanted them to remember their mother. 'She was like a friend to them,' he said. 'Since I was always so busy, they always ran to their mother.'

Standing before her body, he apologized to his wife for not coming to find her. His responsibilities as mayor, he told her, kept him away.

'When I think about that,' Mr. Toba said afterward, 'it really makes me question what kind of human being I am.'

Gordon Fairclough / Daisuke Wakabayashi