In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Hatsu cut my hair on Saturday, too. I have bangs now. Her daughter, Botan, has bangs and two big white bows in her hair. I wish I had bows; they would hold my curls down.

  Hatsu stands back, gives me one more sweeping look up and down, and smiles her approval. She hands me the book bag. I want to peek inside it, but she’s rushing me. So I stick my arms through the straps while she says something in Japanese to Botan, who takes a seat on the floor. Carolina does the same. I’m not surprised. That’s one of the things Nonna told us to do: “Pick out someone nice and copy them. That way you’ll fit in.” I need to find someone to copy.

  Hatsu opens the door and looks at me.

  I haven’t been outside this giant embassy at all yet. I go to the door. Then hesitate. “Bye,” I say to Carolina. “Have fun.”

  Carolina looks at Botan, who is busy twisting the bottom edge of her skirt, then looks back at me, frowning. She jumps up and hugs me. “You have fun, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come back. Please. Right away.”

  “Of course I’ll come back! As soon as school lets out.” I squeeze her tight; this is her first day on her own, too. “You know I’ll come back. Always.”

  “Nonna said we have to be best friends.”

  “Nonna’s right. Go play now. Have fun.”

  I follow Hatsu out the side door to the gate. A man opens it for us. Hatsu bows her head to him, so I do, too. As we walk along the edge of the road, I’m glad to be walking steady; I don’t feel like I’m still rocking on a ship, like I felt most of the weekend, after a month at sea.

  Out on the ship’s deck, I overheard Papà learning Japanese, and I heard lots of talk about war. News came through telegrams. Italy invaded Somaliland in Africa. One city, then another. Swift victories. Nothing about anyone invading Italy. And the news about Japan was good: Japan will conquer all of China soon, just like the man from Foreign Affairs told Papà.

  I’m glad to finally be in Tokyo and see that Japan is safe. The people on the street are ordinary, not soldiers. I look closely at everyone we pass; no one carries guns.

  I smile up at Hatsu, hoping for a smile back, but she looks straight ahead, over a big envelope she clasps to her chest, filled with everything she needs to enroll me. If the school officials ask me anything that isn’t in those papers, I won’t understand. The idea makes me a little sick. Maybe Hatsu’s worried about that, too, and that’s why her eyes are so intense.

  A group of girls around my age walks ahead of us, dressed just like me. At the second corner, they turn right. We turn right. As we walk, I draw a mental map of the route in my head.

  We’re on a big street now, with sidewalks. Back home there are no sidewalks on my way to school. The girls ahead of us chatter and laugh. We walk past streets and little alleys. Cars and bicycles zoom by, horses pull carts that clatter, and my book bag thumps against my back. Then we turn right, onto a small street. Oh no, I lost count of the blocks! How will I ever know where to turn if I have to walk alone?

  But that must be the school, at the end of the next block. Hatsu runs ahead, and I race after her. She stops one of the girls in the group and says a lot to her, then points at me. The girl glances at me and shakes her head. But another girl, shorter, nods to Hatsu and comes over to me. She says something; I smile and try to repeat it. She points at herself and says, “Aiko.” Then she points at me and raises her eyebrows. So I say, “Simona.” She gives me a quick head bow, and I bow, then look back at Hatsu.

  Hatsu nods to me, and we follow Aiko through the main door. Hatsu flaps her hand at me: Go with Aiko. She smiles, waves, and goes into an office.

  I watch Aiko walk up to a set of lockers, take off her street shoes, and put them inside. Then she takes out white cloth slippers and puts them on. She says something to me and points at the very last locker. I take off my shoes and put them in the locker. But there are no slippers in there. I stand in my socks, feeling exposed. Aiko looks doubtfully at me. She chatters and points at my book bag. I look inside. White slippers! Hatsu did good.

  We go down a hall and into a big room where children are sitting on the floor. Aiko sits, so I sit beside her. A man stands on a low platform at one end of the room and talks at us. Everyone nods or laughs or speaks in unison. After the assembly I follow Aiko into a classroom. Aiko bows to the teacher and says something. The teacher nods. Aiko takes a seat at a wooden desk. There are two seats at every desk, and the desks are pushed together edge to edge, so that everyone sits in tight rows.

  The teacher stares at me a moment. She looks at a piece of paper on her desk, then holds it up to look closer. Now I can see what’s on it. She reads, “Simona?” I can’t understand how that writing led her to know my name—it looks nothing like my name. I nod and smile. The teacher raps her knuckles on her desk, and everyone stops talking and looks at her. She says something to them. Then they all say something to me. I don’t know what it means, but I repeat it. They laugh as though I’m stupid. I press my lips together hard and look down. The teacher points me to the closest empty seat.

  That’s how the morning goes. I learn all the words I can without looking anyone in the eye. Some words are clear from how people behave—words for book and chair and desk. For girl (or maybe student?), and teacher. For blackboard and chalk. I repeat other words even though I can’t figure out what they mean.

  I love math class; it’s just like the math I had last year. I’m good at it. And in another class I copy the symbols that the teacher writes on the blackboard. Some are hard to do; some are simple. It’s fun, almost like doing art. In one class the girls sing, and I just listen. And in the fourth class I have no idea what’s going on, so I watch and wait.

  When the bell rings for the fifth time, a few girls leave the room, and the others open little boxes. There’s food inside. Bento—that’s what those straw boxes are called. Aiko catches my eye. She points at my book bag. But I know there’s no bento box in there.

  When I shake my head, Aiko comes over, peeks into my book bag, and takes out a cloth bundle. “Furoshiki,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed at me. “Furoshiki.”

  So that’s what this cloth is called. I untie the furoshiki, and there’s a rice ball, cucumber strips, and carrot chunks sitting in the middle. I know rice balls from home. I take a bite, but it’s nothing like in Italy—no cheese inside, no tomato, no peas. I take a nibble. Sweet. I nibble till it’s all gone. Then I eat the vegetables, which turn out to be pickled. They’re good. Did Papà pack this for me? Or Hatsu?

  The bell rings; we go to our lockers, put on our street shoes, and go outside. It’s recess. I sit with my back against the sun-warmed wall and watch the girls skip rope. No one looks at me, not even Aiko.

  We walk inside to marching music. Everyone takes ugly old cloths out of their book bags and gets to work rubbing off their desk. There’s an old cloth in my book bag, too. I rub our desktop, while my deskmate rubs our chairs. Then we all push our desks and chairs to the edges of the room, and some students sweep with brooms while others wipe the blackboards and clean the chalk trays. I help carry the trash to a big basket.

  When we finally put on our shoes again to go home, I’m too tired to be anxious. And I have a plan: If Hatsu isn’t waiting to walk me home, I’ll follow Aiko. She has to live somewhere past the embassy, because that’s where she came from this morning. It won’t be hard.

  I go out the door. Hatsu isn’t there. I look and look. I’m sure of it.

  I turn in a circle. No Aiko anywhere. My stomach does flips.

  A girl from my class walks by. She sticks out her tongue and puts her finger under her eye and pulls down, so her eye is distorted. She says something fast and pokes her fingers toward my face, and I know that whatever she’s saying is nasty and is about the shape of my eyes.

  Everyone pours outside and away from the school. Until I’m alone.
Hatsu isn’t coming. Aiko is gone. I quickly walk two blocks, and I’m at the big road with the sidewalks. I turn left and keep walking. I can do this. Except that nothing looks familiar. Maybe I can’t do this. I taste salt, and I realize I’m crying.

  A shout comes from behind me. I turn around. It’s Aiko. I gasp with relief. She chatters at me and makes all kinds of crazy motions, and I know she’s trying to explain something to me. Oh! She’s mimicking sweeping and cleaning. She’s telling me she had to stay late to do extra cleaning; she’s apologizing. As I nod, it dawns on me that Hatsu must have asked Aiko to take care of me all day long, including walking me home. I slip off my book bag and take out the cloth—the furoshiki—and wipe my nose and try to smile.

  We walk, and Aiko points at things and says the Japanese word for them. I repeat. It’s not really that hard. I just have to memorize. There are so many words to learn, and I’m so glad to be learning them…and from Aiko.

  When we get to the embassy, I turn to hug Aiko in gratitude. But she backs up fast, then runs off. I go in through the side door.

  “You’re alive!” It’s the ambassador’s wife. She’s standing in the hall in a green dress, fingering the pearls around her neck. I can’t believe how wonderful it is to hear Italian. “How did you ever manage?”

  I don’t know how to answer this woman, dressed fancy, talking so loud. I just smile. I’ve seen her only once before, on Friday night, the day we arrived. She came home from a dinner party with the ambassador, and her long hair was swept up with a tiara on top. Like a princess’s.

  “I told your father. When I learned that he’d sent you off to some horrible public school this morning, I told him. You should go to the Sacred Heart School, a good Catholic school. That’s where foreign children go. The school is full of diplomats’ children.”

  Papà appears in the hall. “Simona.” He comes up and hugs me tight.

  “Just look at her,” says the ambassador’s wife. “She must have had an awful day. You have to change her school immediately.”

  “I appreciate your interest in my daughters, Ambasciatrice,” Papà says, using her title as ambassador’s wife. “But the public school is free.”

  “She can’t speak the language. She’ll fail her grade. At the Sacred Heart School they teach the children Japanese.”

  “Indeed, that’s quite right. But Sacred Heart is over in the Hiroo district. Mita Elementary, instead, is close. Simona can walk to it. And the school year starts here in April—not like in Italy. So she’s entering in the middle of the third grade. She already finished third grade in Italy. That means she’ll have time to learn the language before she has to move on to new schoolwork.”

  “What they teach in each grade here could be different from in Italy. Who knows? Besides, you can’t learn a language that fast.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Ambasciatrice. But Simona’s smart. She’ll work hard and do fine.” He looks at me. “Right?”

  I do my best to nod.

  “Now go find Carolina,” says Papà. “Play. You can tell me all about your day tonight.”

  8 DECEMBER 1940, TOKYO, JAPAN

  “You gobbled up the last piece of birthday treat after church, didn’t you?” I say.

  Carolina clutches her rag doll, Lella, to her chest and looks up at the sky, then along the wall around this yard, and finally at me. “I love lemons.”

  That wasn’t exactly lemons, but it’s as close to lemons as Tokyo has. It’s my job to race through the markets to find substitute ingredients so Papà can make the ambassador Italian dishes. We’ve been here three months already, so I know the markets. “Pears would have been better, but there are none left.”

  “Lemon is perfect. I want crust with lemon every birthday from now on. So does Lella.”

  Papà made that treat last night for Carolina’s sixth birthday. We ate it in the kitchen, after everyone else had gone home or to bed. It was a disappointment in comparison to birthday cakes back home, but it was still good. Papà mixed the fruit into a custard, and the smell as it baked was heavenly. Maybe I’ll ask Papà to make that for my birthday, too.

  “Konnichiwa!” Botan comes racing out the side door of the embassy, shouting the greeting that I know so well, and bows to Carolina and me. Carolina and I bow back

  I’m surprised Botan is here. Today is Sunday, and Botan’s mother, Hatsu, doesn’t come on Sundays.

  Botan chatters away, and Carolina nods happily. Carolina is learning Japanese as well as Japanese ways from Botan, so she’ll be prepared for first grade.

  Already Carolina knows a lot more Japanese than I do. Hardly anyone at school ever talks to me. I can speak some now, but slowly, and I have to search for words. Still, I’m starting to understand things, and I talk to Botan at home. I understand what Carolina and Botan are talking about now. Botan just learned a new game, Daruma Otoshi. She brought it in a bag, and she’s explaining it to Carolina, who keeps asking more and more questions. I know that game from school recess. It’s nearly impossible to explain it without showing it.

  “Please,” I say to Botan. “Please show.”

  Botan dumps the bag out onto the ground. There are four round stacking pieces, which she arranges into a tower. On top goes the fifth piece, a Buddha head. Botan picks up the only thing left, a little wooden hammer, and knocks out one of the round pieces. The whole stack falls. She makes a face and stacks them again and swings the hammer. All the pieces fall, and Botan makes an uglier face. The point is to knock out the bottom blocks, one at a time, without making the Buddha head fall.

  Hitomi, Papà’s best kitchen helper, comes out the side door. She makes a quick bow of the head. A boy stands half hidden behind her, staring.

  “Party,” Hitomi says to me loudly in Japanese. “Your sister. Carolina. Party. With friend.” She clasps her hands below her stomach. “Naoki. See? He come. You have friend, too. Party.”

  Ah. Papà asked Hatsu and Hitomi to make this feel like a party for us.

  Carolina and Botan stand up and hold hands. I stand beside them. In Japan, holding hands is considered babyish for eight-year-olds like me. I’m tense all the time, trying to figure out how things work here. The three of us just look at Hitomi. It’s chilly outside, and our jackets are thin. The boy’s jacket looks thin, too. Old and shabby.

  “Play. All of you. Together.” Hitomi bows again.

  She’s trying to be kind, talking to us slowly and using few words. That’s how she talks to the ambassador’s wife. The ambassador’s wife hates Japan and refuses to speak a word of Japanese. We’re not like her. I don’t know how to tell Hitomi to talk normal without my seeming impolite, though—and in Japan nothing is worse than a child being impolite to an adult.

  We all know what to do: bow. Hitomi goes back inside.

  The boy is barely taller than Carolina, but he seems older. I smile at him. Naoki. I say a sentence I think I know how to say perfectly: “Do you go to school?”

  “It’s Sunday,” says Naoki solemnly.

  I almost laugh. He can’t be that old, after all. “Want to play with us?” A second perfect sentence.

  He looks at the scattered wooden pieces. “You can’t play Daruma Otoshi on this ground. It’s too—” He points to the pebbles, and I nod.

  Botan picks up the pieces and puts them back into the bag.

  “My mother is smart,” says Naoki to me. “But she said something odd. So you must explain.”

  Hitomi is his mother? She’s at the embassy every day all week. So who looks out for Naoki?

  Naoki tilts his head. “Did your sister really have a birthday?”

  “Yesterday,” says Carolina. “Seven December.”

  “It’s stupid to have a birthday in December. And it’s stupid to have a party.”

  Carolina’s eyes go big and liquid. I move to stand beside her.
/>   “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Six,” says Carolina.

  “That’s not special,” says Naoki. “When you turn seven, it will be special. In the middle of November you’ll visit the shrines and get to tie your kimono with a waist sash instead of a cord.”

  Really? I love kimonos—those beautiful robes. If Carolina gets one, I want one, too.

  Carolina rubs her nose with the back of her hand, but her eyes stay on Naoki.

  “You should know that,” he says. “Any first grader knows that.”

  Carolina is not in first grade. She would have been among the youngest in her class here, and not knowing the language would have made her too vulnerable. So Papà is keeping her home till the start of the new school year, in April. I move closer still. My arm presses against hers.

  “What games do you know?” says Naoki.

  “My favorite is ‘old home,’ ” says Carolina.

  “How do you play?”

  “We sleep in that tree.” Carolina points.

  “You can’t sleep in a tree.”

  “We lie back like this.” Carolina throws her arms out to both sides. Lella dangles from her left hand. “We sleep high up, like in Italy. Not like here, on the floor.”

  “You’ll fall. Foreigners are stupid.”

  “It’s just pretend,” says Botan.

  Naoki looks at me. “Can you climb high?”

  I shake my head. I’m not about to say anything more in front of this boy unless I am absolutely sure I can say it perfectly.

  Naoki twists his mouth. “Is that the only game you know?”

  “What do you want to play?” asks Botan.

  “I can fold paper in the air without using tools.” Naoki glances at me. “Go get your best colored folding paper.”

  He’s talking about origami. Everyone at school is an expert at folding paper.

  “We don’t have colored paper,” says Carolina.