In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  When we get off the streetcar, we’re sent home.

  “Walk ahead of me,” says Aiko.

  We get to the corner where she joined me this morning, and I stop. As Aiko passes me, she hands me something wrapped in folded paper. “This is better to chew than pine needles.” And she’s gone.

  I unfold the paper. In the middle is a pile of green shiny leaves. From that huge tree! I bury my nose in them. Camphor. A girl in my class back home took camphor for her asthma. A bit of this in my mouth will cover any smell.

  I tuck the leaves in their paper into my pocket. Tonight, in my ongoing letter to Nonna, I’ll tell her about the woman hugging that ancient tree. And about Aiko helping me. And admitting to me that she doesn’t want to quit school at twelve.

  Tomorrow I’ll leave for school early again, and hope to see Aiko.

  24 JULY 1941, NIKKO, JAPAN

  The train bumps along hour after hour. It’s summer vacation, at last. We’re on our way to the summer villa that belongs to the embassy, and Naoki is with us. Even more amazing, Aiko is here, too. I’ve never been happier. One year ago today, Papà told us about his job offer at the embassy. Forever ago.

  Nonna’s last letter asked when Papà was going to bring us back home. It’s my privilege to read her letters aloud, while Carolina sits on Papà’s lap and listens quietly, practically memorizing every word. But when I read that question, Carolina yelped, “We’re not going back to Italy yet, are we? Not yet. Please.”

  I looked at Papà.

  Carolina started first grade in April, and Botan is in her class. Carolina loves school, and no one is mean to her. Or if they are, she’s handling it, because she never talks about that. But school is still hard for me. My spoken Japanese is getting good, but I’m way behind in writing. The kana aren’t so bad, because there aren’t that many of them, under a hundred. But the characters are a challenge because there’s a different one for each word—everyone else has been memorizing them for years. You have to memorize hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands, just to read a newspaper. It’s hard to catch up. And I’m left at the edge whenever groups form at lunch or recess. But Naoki and I play all day on Sundays. Most important, Aiko and I are friends, secret but true. Sometimes we meet at the major public library and whisper as we look at the atlases. And even at school we find ways to be together when no one will notice. Aiko is fascinated by the world outside Japan. She asks me about food in Italy, and she brings me Japanese lunch treats. She asks me about being Catholic, and she tells me about being Buddhist. She asks me what people in Italy say about war, and she tells me what people say in Japan. She told me there are only two people in the world she can be completely honest with, and I’m one. I don’t know who the other one is. But I’m so glad to be one. I’m not ready to leave Japan yet, either.

  When Papà finally answered, “No, we’re not going home yet,” I let out my breath in relief.

  We miss Nonna, though. Her letters remind us of everything back home—the manger scenes at Christmas, the carnival masks at the end of winter, the dove-shaped cakes at Easter, and the great big church in the center of town. The church of peace. She wants to make sure we don’t forget Italian traditions. But she always includes advice on how to get along here, and even though she’s never been here, her advice helps us. Carolina and I memorize it and remind each other often. Nonna ends every letter with the words forza e coraggio—strength and courage.

  And Zio Piero has written twice. He sent a card for Carolina’s birthday last December and another for my birthday in February. When we write to Nonna, we always address the letter to him, too.

  The train wheels screech, and Hitomi stands up. We’re here. Finally. We’ve arrived at Nikko, a town way north of Tokyo. Papà and Hitomi have big sacks roped to their backs and bundles in both arms. Carolina, Naoki, Aiko, and I only carry sacks filled with our clothes. Still, we’re tired after two crowded trains.

  Tokyo was sweltering when we left, but Nikko is fresh; the cool hits us now like wind off water. It feels like we’ve moved backward and we’re at the start of spring. We stand outside the train station, where bushes are in bloom, and I look down the road to the mountains I’ve read about.

  “There’s no snow,” I whisper to Aiko.

  “It’s July. What did you expect?”

  But I know she was hoping for snowcapped mountaintops, too. We stared together at the photo book in the Imperial Library at Ueno Park.

  “I’ll find out about the local bus,” Hitomi says as she puts down her bundles.

  “I’ll go with you.” Naoki crosses the street, walking just a few steps in front of Hitomi, chest high, as though he’ll protect her.

  “Look!” Carolina runs over to a man with a donkey attached to a cart.

  I step closer to Aiko. For an instant, it almost feels as though we two are here alone. The ambassador and his wife will come in a few days, after we have the villa cleaned and the kitchen in running order. The ambassador told Papà he needs a perfect vacation; he has too many headaches in Tokyo. The Japanese foreign minister has been complaining because Italy keeps losing battles in Ethiopia and Albania.

  Hitomi and Naoki come back. Hitomi says, “The next bus isn’t for four hours.”

  “We can go in the donkey cart,” Carolina says, popping up beside us again. “It’s cheaper than the bus—one fare for all of us. And faster, because the donkey can go on a direct path.”

  The donkey owner nods at us.

  “I wonder if that’s what people around here call a taxi,” I whisper to Aiko.

  “The ambassador and his wife will be surprised,” she whispers back, and we giggle. It feels good not to worry about being seen together by the girls at school. It feels great!

  The donkey owner leads the way, and Papà and Hitomi walk behind the cart. Our bundles line the cart, and we children perch on top. We move slowly, and I’m feeling like I could fall asleep to the creak of the wheels, when I hear rushing water. The donkey hoofs clop and the wooden wheels clatter as we cross an old red-lacquered bridge.

  “The Daiya River,” calls the donkey owner.

  I look over the side of the bridge. It’s a long way down, and the river is fast and noisy. Carolina grabs me with one hand and Aiko with the other. Naoki does the same; we are all connected in a circle. And I’m grinning, even though I can’t bear to look down again.

  I’m so glad Aiko’s mother let her come. Her father is in the army in Indochina. But her big brother, Gen, is home, so at least her mother isn’t alone. Aiko’s mother told Papà that Aiko has never been out of the city, so the villa is a wonderful opportunity. She thanked him over and over. We have the whole of summer vacation together, an entire month. Aiko made me promise I won’t tell anyone that she came with me, and I know we have to go back to hiding our friendship in September. But for now we are free.

  There’s the villa. Huge! We dump everything in the small corner room reserved for the servants, and dance across a sitting room, a dining room, and a study. One side of the villa faces a lake, with windows and windows and windows. The other side looks out on forest. It feels like we’re animals in the wild. I wish we could go outside, but it’s raining now.

  Hitomi goes upstairs to clean the ambassador’s private quarters. Papà is already clanging things around in the kitchen.

  “Come see!” Naoki lies on the dining room table. It’s a Western-style table, like in the embassy, with chairs all around. “Come look with me.”

  We four lie like paintbrushes in a box and stare up at the ceiling, where airy bamboo poles cross every which way. It seems as though the whole villa could just float away on a breeze if someone opened a door wide.

  “A cat.” Naoki points.

  “A frog,” says Aiko. “Two!”

  “A bunny!” Carolina laughs.

  I see them now! The pole crossings make funny
shapes. “Like origami animals.”

  “Exactly,” says Naoki. “Now you will learn.” He goes to the servants’ room and comes back with squares of colored paper. “Every Japanese person needs to know how to fold paper.”

  Carolina and I are not Japanese. I hold my breath and wait. But Naoki doesn’t say anything else. I smile. Naoki has just said Carolina and I are honorary Japanese.

  Naoki is a good teacher. Patient, especially with Carolina. Aiko is already excellent at origami. It’s like folding furoshiki into chopstick holders—but more complicated. We fold paper for a long time.

  “Look.” Carolina holds up her creation. “What is it, Simona?”

  Oh, please let me guess right.

  “A fish,” said Aiko. “With a fine tail.” I wonder if she was listening as Naoki instructed Carolina.

  Carolina smiles. “I made something good. Can we go play now?”

  So we count the stones in the fireplace. A gecko runs across the top. Naoki grabs at it, but the gecko gets away. Naoki’s left with a tail in his hand.

  “Bad you!” says Carolina.

  “The tail will grow back,” says Naoki. “That’s how geckos work.”

  “I love geckos,” I say. “They’re cute and quiet and quick, and they eat mosquitoes. Let’s be nice to them.”

  We go stand on the porch and watch the rain bounce on the surface of pure, deep-blue Lake Chūzenji.

  “The volcano is the lake’s emperor,” says Naoki. “Mount Nantai.”

  We look to the right. Beyond the point of land that sticks out into the lake, far, far beyond, Mount Nantai shimmers. Papà told us it’s Japan’s Mount Vesuvius, and it’s important to listen to it. If it rumbles, you run.

  “Kegon Falls is out there, too.” Naoki points across the lake to somewhere we can’t see. “With giant waterfalls.”

  “Let’s go out onto that platform,” Carolina says. “See it?”

  The platform is a big wooden square with a handrail around it. We pick our way carefully down the steps and across the pebble beach. Soon we’re drenched, but the rain is stopping. And it’s warm and lovely as a bath.

  Carolina squeezes my arm. “Simona!”

  A big monkey comes out from the woods, followed by more, until there are six, with two babies, one on a mother’s back and the other hanging below her. They’re gray with pink faces, and they walk on all fours. One turns, and I see a pink bottom.

  They head toward us, cautiously.

  “Monkeys are dangerous,” says Naoki.

  They’re between us and the house now.

  “Here.” Aiko beckons toward a hole in the side of the support under the platform. “Get in, fast.”

  We crowd into the dark hole and squat. Carolina squats right behind me. She grabs the back of my shirt.

  The big monkey walks up to the opening, and sits on his haunches. The other monkeys settle behind him.

  I smell the leader’s wet fur, like rotting tree bark. His golden eyes are beady, sunken into his face. His fur hangs long around his mouth, like an old man’s whiskers. Hair runs all the way down his long fingers to his light gray fingernails. “The leader is looking at me,” I whisper.

  “Don’t look back,” whispers Aiko.

  “Looking back is a challenge,” whispers Naoki.

  I drop my eyes and pick up one of the broken planks that has fallen inward. I hold it with both hands, ready.

  An adult makes a coo. I peek. One monkey picks something off another one and eats it. Now all of them are doing that.

  Finally they walk away, their short, stumpy tails wagging, and disappear into the woods.

  “The daddy looked mean,” says Carolina. “I’m glad Lella is safe in our room. Will they come back?”

  I wait for Aiko or Naoki to answer. They know about monkeys. Finally I say, “Why should they?”

  “Tell me they won’t come back, Simona.”

  “They won’t come back, Carolina.”

  Carolina relaxes against me, even though she told me what to say.

  “There’s a box under this platform,” says Aiko.

  I turn around, staying in a squat, because the platform isn’t high enough to stand under. “Where?”

  “Behind me.”

  We’re all feeling the sides of the box now.

  “A pirate chest,” says Naoki.

  “Push it out into the open,” says Carolina.

  We push. It doesn’t budge, but the top lifts easily. I force away images of spiders, and Aiko and I feel around in the hazy dark. “Wooden shoes,” she says. “But not the ordinary kind.”

  We skitter out the opening one by one. I straighten my legs and arms stiffly.

  Aiko holds up a fancy pair of wooden shoes. They are flat wood on very tall bottom supports underneath the heel and toe.

  Carolina grabs them. “Whose are they?”

  “The pirate wife’s,” says Naoki. “She’s going to come back and snatch you away for stealing them.”

  Carolina stares at him. He grins, and she laughs.

  We go up onto the platform and take turns wearing the fancy shoes. Even Naoki.

  “Kata-kata, kata-kata,” we sing, mimicking the clickity-clack.

  It’s hard to balance in them, so we fall, and laugh.

  “Let’s go swimming,” says Carolina.

  Naoki bumps into me. “I can’t swim,” he whispers to me.

  I nod, and say to the others, “When Naoki goes to help his mother, we can have a girl swim without him.” How will Naoki ever manage in the navy if he can’t swim? Maybe I can teach him.

  But I’m so glad he’s here. I look behind us at the sides of the villa, where the dark and light pattern of the wood is like a checkerboard. It’s just right, among these trees. We four fit together just right. I wish we could stay here forever.

  7 DECEMBER 1941, TOKYO, JAPAN

  Carolina’s stomach growls. She giggles, even though we’re in church. We haven’t had breakfast yet, because the adults and I are going to take Communion, and our insides must be clean and empty, ready for the wafer. Carolina should have nibbled on something before church, but she likes to fast because I do it.

  Papà doesn’t scold her for giggling, and neither does the ambassador, sitting beside Papà, nor Pessa. In Italy children giggling in church isn’t bad behavior. But Japan is different.

  I look around. Denenchōfu Church is packed with a mix of foreigners and Japanese. It’s tiny in comparison to our huge church in Italy. And it’s made of wood, not bricks. The brass altar bells that were here when we first came are gone. So is the altar candelabra. But the incense smells the same, and the Latin words are the same. I love this church. Everyone does. People stand in the side aisles and at the back. The church couldn’t hold one more body.

  It’s the seventh of December, and Carolina turns seven today; we’re having a party. We’re not calling it a party, though, since no one in Japan has birthday parties.

  After Mass everyone spills out the front doors. We wait our turn to bow to Friar Inayou. He’s the only Japanese priest at this church; the others are from Europe. He likes Carolina and me. Last autumn Carolina gave him an origami boat. Since then, after Mass he gives each of us an origami animal. This is a Franciscan church, and Saint Francis loved animals. Today the priest’s animals are birds in flight. A yellow one for Carolina and a blue one for me. We bow again.

  We pile into the official embassy car to ride home. Papà sits up front beside the driver. The ambassador and his wife sit in the back, with Carolina and me between them. I take Mamma’s church scarf off and tie it onto Carolina. I get to wear it during Mass, and she gets to wear it on the way home. Most girls her age don’t cover their heads in church. We fly our origami birds in wonderful swoops.

  I think of Nonna. We’ve been waiting and waiti
ng for a letter from her. It has to come soon; she’d never fail to wish Carolina a happy birthday. Zio Piero’s card isn’t here yet, either. Papà promises they will appear any day; the Italian mail can be late, but it always shows up in the end.

  The ambassador leans forward and taps Papà on the shoulder. “Foreign Minister Matsuoka will be coming on Wednesday. We need to serve him a Japanese banquet.”

  “Of course,” says Papà.

  “A celebration.” The ambassador sounds annoyed. “He hinted something about the Soviet Union.”

  “I can buy herring roe, and with the perfect light soy sauce, I can—”

  “Do whatever you think is best.” The ambassador reaches past Carolina and me and pats his wife’s knee. “Just make sure that for the rest of the week you make my wife’s favorite dishes. Your cooking is such a relief.”

  Pessa sighs. “Oh, Mario.” She looks out the window, her hands twisting and twisting.

  It feels strange to hear the ambassador’s first name. Carolina laughs.

  Pessa turns and gives Carolina a small smile. Pessa takes Mamma’s church scarf off Carolina and drops it onto my lap. Then she smooths her lace mantilla and puts it on Carolina’s head. “It’s your birthday, I heard. From now on, you can look like the big girls in church.”

  Carolina’s mouth falls open, and her eyes say it all: she wants to be wearing Mamma’s church scarf.

  “Thank you, Ambasciatrice,” I say. “But your gift is far too fine and expensive.”

  Pessa smiles. “I need a new one anyway.”

  Carolina sits like a stone.

  I pinch her thigh lightly.

  “Thank you, Pessa,” she manages.

  “Pessa?”

  “Carolina thinks of you as a principessa,” I say. “Because you’re as beautiful as a princess.” I look at the ambassador, with his slicked-back hair, parted in the middle. He isn’t a prince; he’s more of a frog. The princess and the frog.

  Pessa touches Carolina’s cheek. She says to the ambassador, “The bay, please.”