The ambassador says to Papà, “Tell the driver to take the route along the bay.”
Papà is writing something in the little notebook he always carries. He doesn’t seem to hear.
“Please take the route along the bay,” I say to the driver in Japanese. “The ambassador’s wife wants that.”
The ambassador looks at me as though he’s just realized I was there. “Such good Japanese,” he says.
“I know it, too,” says Carolina.
The ambassador nods at me. “I watched you with the Japanese children last summer at the villa. How old are you?”
“Almost ten.”
“Only ten.” He taps his fingertips together.
Today is bright and clear. No clouds. But there’s a cold wind. We can see the bay now. I wish the windows were down, so I could smell it. The Tokyo Bay is enormous, with lots of ports and many rivers that empty into it. The five major ones are the Tama, the Sumida, the Edo, the Obitsu, and the Yōrō. At school I stand in front of the big map and try to memorize every detail of this area. The others in my class learned all this in first grade; I’m always working to catch up.
The water in the bay is choppy, and there’s a gigantic battleship out there. The waves slosh over the decks, but the ship barely sways. Naoki says the Japanese navy is invincible. He must be right.
When we get back to the embassy, Papà prepares breakfast for the ambassador and Pessa.
“Don’t forget the canary,” says the ambassador, in Italian, and he and Pessa disappear up the stairs.
Papà turns to Hitomi. “The ambassador’s wife wants a canary bird. Can you find one? Today?”
Hitomi’s eyes widen. “She already has so much to eat.”
Papà laughs. “She wants it as a pet. A live canary.”
Papà grinds coffee beans with his mortar and pestle. The smell coats the air. He sets out fresh bread and bowls of jams. But my mouth doesn’t water at the sight like it used to. Now I love Japanese breakfast. I love all Japanese food.
Carolina and I run into the room off the kitchen, where Naoki waits for us every Sunday. I think he’s extra glad on Sunday, because it’s his one day with his mother. She works such long hours at the embassy. I don’t know if he has a father. He talks about his uncle, but never a father.
We sit on mats and eat rice balls rolled in dried fish flakes and sesame seeds. And we nibble pickles. A wonderful breakfast.
Hatsu arrives with Botan, but Hatsu doesn’t stay. It’s not her job to look after Carolina ever since Carolina started school in April. I don’t know what job she has now. I watch Hatsu leave; she’s thinner than before. Maybe Botan is thinner, too.
The girls immediately sit beside each other and share food. They’re together in class all week, but you’d think they never get to see each other, the way they talk now.
Finally Aiko arrives, and we five play games all morning.
Papà comes into the room. “Do you want to help me prepare your lunch?”
“What will we make?” asks Carolina.
“There’s leftover pasta. And spicy leaves. And eggs. Not the powdered kind that we buy in the ration lines. Fresh eggs, that beat into the right froth. So I thought we’d make—”
“Frittata!” shouts Carolina. “We’ll help.”
“Western food?” Naoki wrinkles his nose.
“It’s omelette, one of Papà’s specialties,” I say. “You can crack the eggs.”
Naoki smiles.
We make the best frittata ever. All the servants share. Then Papà serves Carolina’s birthday cake, a giant crust with lemon-like custard. Enough for everyone.
We play outside all afternoon.
Evening falls early these days. Aiko leaves by herself; I know that she lives close enough to walk alone, though I’ve never been to her house. Hitomi and Naoki also live close enough to walk; Carolina and I went to his house once. He leaves with Hitomi, and Hatsu arrives to take Botan home.
I bow and hand Hatsu a furoshiki. “Old foods. Half-rotten. I’m so sorry to bother you with them. If you cannot use them, dispose of them, please.”
Hatsu bows deep.
We avoid each other’s eyes.
“Maybe Botan can come every Sunday,” I say. “Otherwise Carolina is lonely while I play with Naoki. It would be a service to us if you brought her here.”
Hatsu bows again. She and Botan leave.
Carolina hugs me around the waist. “I won’t tell Papà.”
She’s right, it’s a secret, because in a sense I stole the food I gave Hatsu. The food is supposed to be for the employees of the embassy, including the day servants and the live-in guards, and Signor Rosati, the consular officer. And I may have made a problem for Papà; it’s his job to feed us all within the budget. But Hatsu and Botan look hungry—hungrier than any of those others. So I’m a thief, but maybe not the worst kind.
* * *
—
The next morning, ready for the start of the school week, we go to the kitchen, where the servants are sitting on their heels in a circle around the radio.
Hitomi jumps up and gives us each a breakfast tray with rice and salted plum.
I whisper to Hitomi, “What’s going on?”
“The Americans think they can tell Japan what to do in Indochina. The white pigs. But we won’t let them. So before dawn this morning, our air force bombed them in Hawaii. Pearl Harbor. Now they know how strong we are. They will remember the eighth of December forever.” She rushes back to her spot on the floor.
The eighth of December. But Tokyo time is seven hours ahead of Italy time—so it happened on the seventh of December in Italy. In America, too. I don’t correct Hitomi, though. Whatever the date, everyone will remember today. Japan bombed America!
The radio announcer describes how boats were sunk in the harbor of an American island. Many people died. A surprise attack.
Papà rushes down the stairs into the kitchen. The ambassador and Pessa must have had breakfast in their rooms. He chews on his bottom lip as he throws our lunches into bento boxes. When Carolina started school, Botan told her that everyone uses bento boxes, so now we use them, too. Papà walks with us to the side door.
I touch his hand and whisper, “Hitomi says this is good news. Your face says it isn’t.”
Papà puts one hand on my head and one hand on Carolina’s head. “America has stayed out of the war that Italy and Germany are waging in Europe and North Africa. It has stayed out of the war that Japan is waging in China and Indochina. But now that Japan attacked, America can’t stay out of these wars. And America is unbeatable.”
“America will declare war on Japan?” I clutch his arm.
“And on Italy.”
“Italy!” I cry. “But Italy didn’t drop bombs on the American harbor.”
Carolina watches us.
“When America declares war on Japan, Italy will declare war on America,” Papà says. “Remember the Tripartite Pact, Simona? Germany, Italy, and Japan fight together. The enemy of one is the enemy of all three.” Papà’s hands smooth our hair tenderly. “Go to school.”
Carolina and I go out to the street. The group of girls we usually walk with is halfway down the block. We run to catch up. They’re talking about the attack.
“Our air force killed hundreds.”
“Thousands! Many thousands.”
“After we defeat America, everyone will have plenty to eat.”
“Japan will rule the world.”
As we walk, more girls join us and talk. Maybe everyone in every home in Japan is talking about the surprise attack.
Aiko whispers to me, “America is huge. It has more soldiers than Japan, and more planes, more ships.”
And Papà said America is unbeatable. How do Aiko and Papà know these things?
I walk closer to Aiko and
pull Carolina with me. Aiko took a chance to whisper those words to me; it would have been awful if anyone else had heard. This is another secret between me and Aiko—the way we can talk about things the radio doesn’t say, the way we can share our own opinions. And she knows things I don’t know.
I look around at the group of girls. Does anyone else have opinions they can’t speak out loud? What do they know?
It’s Monday, and we start the school week with morning assembly. The principal says that today is a stupendous day for Japan. We stand and shout the traditional cheer, “Banzai!” Marching tunes play nearly all day long, so it’s hard to even think. We stay late for extra songs and marching around the school grounds. On the way home, soldiers stand in the streets and hand out the evening editions of newspapers, with giant headlines: JAPAN DECLARES WAR ON U.S., BRITAIN AT DAWN and DEADLY AIR STRIKE ON HAWAII. Loudspeakers on public buildings blast out marching tunes. Men walk past us talking about how much money they are making today, how Japan’s stock market is soaring. Everything feels like a giant celebration.
When we get home, Papà doesn’t say anything about Pearl Harbor. But the radio in the kitchen is constantly on. Papà was right: the next day America declares war on Japan. Days later, Italy and Germany declare war on America. And America declares war on them. But no one in Tokyo talks of fear. Not out loud, at least. The radio spews praise for the imperial Japanese forces, for our victories, for our glorious future.
4 APRIL 1942, TOKYO, JAPAN
The interpreter stands outside the ambassador’s office door with a pile of newspapers in his arms. I peek. The headlines are about Daitōa Kyōeiken—the Co-Prosperity Sphere—how this war will liberate Asia from control by Great Britain and France, and Asia will prosper.
The interpreter gives me a small head bow. I bow back, much deeper, and hurry to the servants’ door.
The school year ended in late March, so Carolina and I are home on school break, and today we’re going shopping with Papà.
Papà pulls his apron off over his head. It’s all one piece, black, crisscrossing in the back, with big pockets on the sides—so different from the white jacket he used to wear in Italy. The three of us walk out the gate and along the street.
“What are we going to buy?”
“Dried salted roe,” says Papà.
“Pessa wants it,” says Carolina. “One. Two. Ha! Look, three, four.” She’s counting the rising-sun flags that hang from windows. The fourth of every month is flag day. People display flags to celebrate how well Japan is doing in this war.
I remember dried salted roe. Back home, Papà grated it over ripe tomatoes or asparagus or plain flat bread. It smells and tastes wonderful. “Do they even sell it here?”
“They do.”
“Thirteen,” says Carolina loudly. “Pessa wants it grated over pasta.” She goes back to counting on her fingers. Lately, when she’s anxious, she counts.
“Pasta?” I turn to Papà. “I thought the flour was gone.” The wheat harvest failed.
“I bought more.”
I almost ask how. But I stop. Tokyo is full of illegal black markets these days. Those are places where people sell food beyond what the government rations out. My teachers warn against them.
“Eighteen,” says Carolina.
A man in uniform passes with a stack of folded red papers in one arm—the call-up notices for military service. The notice is always hand-delivered. My heart flutters. I’m glad Naoki is only ten. The war will be over long before he’s sixteen.
We go to Papà’s favorite fish vendor. He isn’t there. We go to another. Closed.
“Pessa will be sad if we don’t get it,” says Carolina.
The way she says it makes me jealous. They have a bond. I remember the rice candy that Pessa gave Carolina, and the beautiful mantilla that Pessa wanted Carolina to wear to Mass.
Then I think of Denenchōfu Church. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the military police took all the foreign priests who weren’t German off to prison. Friar Inayou is still there. He’s Japanese. But Papà says there are no Masses anymore.
I miss that priest and that sweet little church.
Still, Sundays are special. Botan comes to play with Carolina, and Naoki comes to play with me. I can’t wait for tomorrow.
The third fish vendor is closed. Even the fishermen have gone to war. We get on a streetcar and go to the market at Tsukiji, the one Papà doesn’t like because it’s big and confusing. He speaks Japanese decently now, but not quick enough for that market. So we help him, and hurrah! We find dried salted roe. Carolina dances in a circle.
“Dancing?” says the fish vendor. “Are you on your way to the cherry blossom festival on the Meguro River? Will you gobble up candy?”
Carolina stops; her face begs Papà to take us there.
I want to go, too. But ten-year-olds don’t beg. Most girls in my class planned on going to the festival the day after the school year ended. Our teachers say the cherry blossom is important. Soldiers are like those blossoms, fated to have short lives. It is something to be proud of, to die for one’s country. The cherry blossom symbolizes the proud and loyal Japanese spirit.
We went last year with the ambassador and Pessa. I remember the pink and white overhead, so dense that it screened out the sunshine. I remember the constant buzz of bees, and the bitter and sweet smell of the blossoms everywhere, coating my teeth.
Now we’re on another streetcar. This isn’t the one to take us back to the embassy—but the one to see the trees!
Soon we walk the path beside the Meguro River and look down at the high walls along both sides. Fewer people stroll here than at last year’s festival, though it’s just as beautiful. Most of the cherry trees are in bloom. A wind comes in off the water, and petals drop; it rains velvety pink. The river surface is instantly awash in pink. Carolina skips ahead, her hands out to each side, palms upward. Papà and I stand on a bridge, and the pink accumulates in our hair.
Carolina runs back to us. “The shop up there sells seafoam candy.”
Seafoam candy is like the lovely mix of beaten egg whites and sugar that birthday cakes are made of in Italy. It comes in different colors and shapes. Papà nods, so I go up to the shop. There’s a man on a chair behind the candy counter, dozing.
I give a formal greeting in my gentlest voice.
The man stands up and turns. His face opens in surprise. He’s so thin, his cheekbones look like they might pierce his skin. “From your voice, I thought you were a Japanese girl. You sound like you come from Tokyo.”
I beam at him.
Carolina chooses white candies shaped like mice. I choose pink ones shaped like cherry blossoms. Papà surprises me. He picks a candy—just one, but even one sweet is unusual for him—green and shaped like a giant teardrop.
“Come back at night,” says the candy vendor. “See the lanterns lit up. It’s even more beautiful then.”
On the way home, I eat my candies slowly, so they’ll last the whole way. I ask Papà, “Do you think they have any idea how much trouble they make for you?”
Papà smiles. He doesn’t ask who, and I’m glad. I don’t want to say bad things about Pessa in front of Carolina, though I’m pretty sure she isn’t listening. The seafoam candies take all her attention. She’s licking them, the best way to make them last. “It’s my job, Simona. I love my job. I make people happy with food. But…” Papà’s voice lowers on that last word. “I’ll save some dried salted roe for us.” His tone is conspiratorial. “We can put it between thin slices of raw white radish—and garlic bulb stems. That’s how the Japanese eat it.”
As we get closer to the embassy, we see a boy swing a bamboo pole with a string on it toward a tree. The tip of the string hits a bird. The bird falls, struggling against the string. Something sticky must hold the bird fast.
The boy rips
the string away and stuffs the squawking bird into a bulging cloth bag. He has other birds in there.
Carolina runs up to him. “Set them free!”
The boy looks at her as though she’s crazy. “Everybody needs soup.”
Carolina’s mouth drops open.
My face burns. He’s as thin as the man who sold us the seafoam candy.
I have two seafoam candies left. I hand them to the boy.
He stares, as though he doesn’t know what they are. What good is candy? I might as well have put two stones on his palm. But I have nothing else to give.
Carolina looks at me. She has one candy left; she’s been so good about making them last. She adds her candy to the boy’s palm. “Lick them,” she says. “Slowly.”
We walk on.
Papà pats Carolina on the head. “I’ll tell Nonna about you two in the next letter. She’ll be proud.”
We step inside the embassy to find an envelope from Nonna, almost as though Papà’s words made it appear. It’s my turn to open it. The tissue paper inside is rolled. We go to the table and unroll carefully. Seeds appear. Zucchini, melon, spinach, parsley, beets, carrots. Seeds and seeds.
Carolina and I immediately set about preparing a kitchen garden. Over in one corner of the embassy grounds there are two piles, one of dirt, one of rocks. The ambassador bought them to build a rock garden for his wife. But Pessa doesn’t want one. Carolina and I lug the rocks to the side yard and arrange them in a square. This garden will be even larger than Nonna’s.
In the gardener’s storage space we find buckets and hedge clippers. No shovel. But, oh! There’s the perfect tool. “A zappa,” I say happily, calling the hoe by its Italian name. Nonna always says that’s all a gardener really needs.
“A kuwa,” says Carolina, the Japanese name.
I didn’t know that word. Sometimes I wonder if Carolina speaks Japanese better than Italian these days. In Nonna’s last letter she begged us to speak Italian to each other, to remember who we are, and to come back soon. It’s been nearly two years here, and she guesses how much we’ve changed.
In a Flash Page 5
