In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “I have something to do as soon as we get home.”

  “What?”

  “Something stupid you won’t care about.”

  “You have a secret with Aiko. I could tell when you two were whispering on the way to school. What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Carolina catches up. “You’ve trusted me with other secrets. The secret under the platform by the pebble beach.”

  “That’s because you were there at the waterfall. You had to know. I’m sorry, Carolina, but this one, you don’t have to know.” I shake my head. “Sometimes…there are things you’re better off not knowing.”

  Fear flashes across Carolina’s face. “Don’t get in trouble, Simona.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Tell Papà about it.”

  “Good idea.”

  We go inside the embassy, and I put my things away, then hurry to the ambassador’s office. The door is open.

  “You’re just in time, Simona. A visitor is coming in a moment. Stay in that corner and listen.”

  “But everyone will see me.”

  “He’ll barely notice you. Japanese officials often seem to have servant girls your age waiting off to the side. You won’t matter to him.”

  I go to the corner and sit on my heels on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” The ambassador smacks his hand on the desktop. “Stand up! Act proper.”

  I stay where I am, with my legs folded under me, and bow forward, letting my forehead touch the floor, though we normally don’t bow to the ambassador. Then I sit up tall and work to slow my heart. “This is how a Japanese girl sits.” I speak as steadily as I can manage. “It will make your visitors more comfortable if I behave as they think is proper.”

  The ambassador blinks. “You’re cleverer than I thought.”

  I’m glad. The ambassador has given me a job, and I will do it right.

  Soon a man enters with the interpreter. I lower my eyes and stay where I am. It’s cold in the corner. A draft comes in through a side window. I shiver, but I don’t hug myself or rub my arms. I won’t do anything to bring attention to myself. Spies have to blend in.

  Everyone talks freely, as though I can’t hear. They have no idea I will report on them. I listen to every word.

  After they leave, the ambassador says, “Did the interpreter do a good job? Did he tell me properly what the Japanese man said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice anything odd at all? Anything suspect?”

  “No.”

  “You can go now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Right after school. Be prompt.”

  I turn to leave.

  “And, Simona…”

  I stop.

  “That skill of observation…of noticing and then behaving as you think is best…behaving strategically…it’s a good skill. It will serve you well. Work hard at it.”

  My ears ring with the praise. But it was easy. The interpreter is honest. Maybe spying won’t make me have to do awful things after all.

  Later, I tell Papà what happened.

  “Did it frighten you?”

  His question almost surprises me. I’d somehow pushed all thoughts of danger out of my head as I boasted to Papà. I can’t answer.

  “What, Simona?”

  My pride of a moment ago vanishes. Everything crumbles inside me. I want to run, flee. “The ambassador seems homesick. And so was the consular officer. Sometimes I am, Papà. We’ve been here more than two years. Lots more. You said…”

  “I know.” Papà shakes his head. “Last April, when the bombs fell and killed those school children, Signor Rosati and I tried to find a safe way to get back to Italy. But all ships leaving Japan are targets. Rosati gave up finally and just took his chances. I have no idea how he left or where he is now. But I have you and Carolina; I have to find us a safe way.”

  So much goes on that I don’t know about. I truly thought Signor Rosati had left only because of homesickness. I feel small and ignorant.

  “In the meantime, Simona, do you want to do this for the ambassador or not? If you don’t, I’ll tell him no.”

  And I remember how Aiko reacted. This is important. “I want to do it.”

  Papà puts his hands on my shoulders. “All right, then. You will help the ambassador. But this task is a burden. Every time, come tell me what happened. You’ll share the burden with me, so it’s not so heavy in your heart. Understand?” Papà cups my cheeks and kisses me on the forehead in the most solemn way. His hands smell of olive oil. Somehow Papà managed to buy a small bottle last week. I remember Carolina’s baptism years ago, how she smelled, anointed in olive oil with balsam. Papà’s kiss anoints me now. I can do the job the ambassador wants me to do—I can do it well. Especially with Papà beside me. And maybe I can help Papà find a way to get us home.

  22 MAY 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN

  A letter came from Nonna yesterday, but Papà was busy late last night because the ambassador had important people to dinner. He said we’ll read it tonight. I hold up the tan square envelope. There are five stamps on it. Normally Nonna’s letters have only four. I shake it. It seems heavier than usual. There are postmarks all over it, some Italian, some Japanese—front and back. One stamp says this envelope has been deemed safe by an examiner. Safe for what? I can’t wait until tonight. “I’m going to open it.”

  Carolina crawls from her futon, across the tatami mat, and snuggles up beside me. “I’m ready.”

  I tear the thin paper carefully, so as not to rip what’s inside. A photograph slides out. It’s Nonna, standing under the old spreading fig tree by Zio Piero’s house. Off to one side in the background is an almond tree in bloom, heralding spring. Nonna’s holding a round low cake and smiling big. There are candles on it. Of course! Her sixtieth birthday. This is the first photograph she’s sent. I stare at every detail. My eyes well. I can predict what’s in the letter with this photograph; she will tell us to speak Italian so we don’t forget who we are. She tells us that often. But now, with this photograph, she’s telling us that simply with the hopeful look on her face.

  “I recognize her,” says Carolina at last.

  Her words startle me. Of course she should recognize Nonna. But, oh, Carolina hasn’t seen Nonna for nearly three years, and she was only five and a half then. I put my arm around her and pull her close. It’s time to go back to Italy.

  Carolina places her fingertip on a bird sitting on a branch of the almond tree. “A magpie.”

  I look closer. Unmistakable black-and-white markings.

  “Nonna will have good luck,” Carolina says.

  “But…” In Japan, magpies mean good luck. But in Italy they mean bad luck.

  “But what?”

  “But Nonna better chase him away from the almond tree. Magpies are fruit and nut thieves.”

  “She will. She’s smart. Right, Simona?”

  The rasp of footsteps on gravel comes from outside the window. It isn’t the clacking kata-kata of servants coming to work in their wooden clogs. This sounds like Western shoes.

  I roll off my futon and walk to the window. A man in high black boots ducks as he gets into a red car with shiny chrome trim. The embassy guard has already pulled wide the gate, and the car zooms outside the wall.

  A car like that stands out on the streets of Tokyo. The ambassador got one last month. Papà said it was a mistake to show off. No one should put chrome on their cars anymore—this war takes all the metal.

  The sight of that rich car puts a lump in my throat. I want nothing to do with show-offs. I remember how the girls at school used to treat me when they thought I was rich just because I lived at the embassy.

  “Who was that?” Carolina stands beside me.

  “Some visitor. It doesn’t matter. We can read Nonna’s letter la
ter, when we get home from school.”

  “No we can’t. You’ll disappear, like you always do.”

  Carolina knows I go into the ambassador’s office. But I never mention what happens inside there. “Then we’ll read it tonight with Papà, like usual.” I put the photograph and the unread letter into the red lacquer box beside my futon, with all the past letters from Nonna. “You know what? I’m going to teach you how to read Italian tonight, so you can read Nonna’s letters to me and Papà from now on.”

  “You can’t teach someone how to read a language in one night. It takes years.”

  “Learning to read Japanese takes years. But reading Italian is different. You’ll see.”

  We dress and have breakfast, and I take one of yesterday’s newspapers off the stack that is to be thrown away. I put it into my book bag. Hitomi once asked me what I planned on doing with a newspaper at school. I said it was like padding against my back; it helped when my back hurt. That seemed to satisfy her. She didn’t ask why my back hurt, and she never looked at me funny when I took a newspaper again.

  When we meet up with the others, Aiko smiles and says, “There was a white-cheeked starling outside my window this morning. He sang, ‘Kyur-kyur.’ ”

  I come to attention; mentioning a bird is our signal that Aiko got a new issue of the magazine Chikakiyori to pass to me.

  “Our grandmother sent us a photo of her with a magpie in an almond tree,” says Carolina.

  “Your grandmother climbs trees?” says Yukiko.

  The other girls laugh.

  I do, too, looking at Carolina.

  Carolina is only a half second behind in joining in. She understands; pretending not to notice an offense deflects it. That’s what all the big girls do. Carolina’s smarter every day.

  “But, Aiko,” says Yukiko, “what’s all this talk about birds? This must be the fourth or fifth time that you tell us about some bird outside your window, but they’re not even special ones. So who cares?”

  My fingers tighten around the straps of my book bag so hard that it hurts. I don’t look at Aiko.

  “I smile at the flag outside my window. It greets me every morning,” says Aiko. “So I say hello to the birds at the same time. And when the birds seem particularly cheerful, then I tell all of you.”

  Aiko’s answer is perfect! I glance at her in awe. Aiko looks like any other girl—bangs, long hair, open expression with clear eyes. But she’s a genius.

  “Just as you should,” says Keiko. “I look at our flag each day as evening comes.”

  “Pretty soon we’ll see fireflies in the evening,” says Misato.

  And everyone sings “Hotaru Koi,” the firefly song. It shows our loyalty to the beautiful traditions of Japan. We sing it over and over all the way to school, behaving just as we should, every last one of us.

  It’s Saturday, so school lets out before lunch. By the school’s front door, I meet up with everyone, including Carolina and Botan. All spring, Hatsu has been allowing Botan to come home with Carolina on Saturday afternoons. “Please walk at your own pace,” I say to my friends. “I may lag behind. Take Carolina and Botan with you.”

  “Your back hurts again?” asks Yukiko. “I thought you were better.”

  “It’s good that you don’t complain,” says Keiko.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t play so hard at recess,” says Aiko.

  I understand her message: Act like I feel bad on the days when Aiko sees a bird outside her window. At recess, sit in one place and watch the others play.

  “I can wait and walk with you if you want,” Chizue says, and gives a small smile.

  “That’s kind of you.” I smile back. Chizue has never tried to make friends with me before. “But it’s good to be alone sometimes. I enjoy stopping to think before I walk.”

  They finally leave, and I lean against the sun-warmed wall until they turn the corner onto the big road. Then I hurry to the postbox on the next street over. It’s the best one for Aiko and me because it stands on four short legs, rather than being perched on a pole, so there is a small, protected space underneath it, just right for hiding an issue of Chikakiyori.

  The street is empty. I go straight to the postbox, put my book bag on the ground, unbuckle it, take out yesterday’s newspaper. Fighting the urge to glance around for prying eyes, I reach under the postbox, grab Chikakiyori. The latest issue—good. I fold it inside my newspaper, put it all into my book bag, slip my arms through the straps, stand, open and close the little door on the postbox slot, keep my eyes on that door. I act like everything is normal; I’m a schoolgirl who just mailed a letter.

  My ears buzz. If anyone catches me with this magazine, something bad will happen. That’s why Aiko never passes it directly to me. If one of us is caught, at least the other is safe.

  I walk back to school, forcing myself not to run. Once I’m on the right street, out of sight of anyone who might have been watching the postbox, I race back to the embassy, and get there just as Carolina and Botan are going through the gate.

  I enter the ambassador’s office without a word and sit on my heels in my corner. The ambassador is listening to the interpreter and doesn’t seem to notice me. A telegram has come—in German. Everyone says this interpreter is as good in German as he is in Italian. The ambassador makes the interpreter translate that telegram over and over, so many times, I practically memorize it. It says Italy is falling apart. Cities are in ruins. But Germany won’t put up with an Italian rebellion; Italy is on Germany’s side, and it has to stay there. If Italy makes trouble, Germany will reduce Italy to mud and ashes.

  Mud and ashes.

  The ambassador repeats those words as he paces.

  I’m dizzy. A rebellion in Italy? The ambassador points at me, and my heart jumps. But he says, “Bring me coffee.” That makes sense; I don’t know German, so I’m useless here.

  I run to the kitchen and gobble down rice balls with salted plum inside while Papà makes the coffee. I whisper, “Germany is afraid that Italy might rebel. What would that mean, Papà?”

  “It’s what Signor Rosati feared. But it won’t happen, Simona. It can’t. We have a pact.”

  I hurry back to the ambassador. Now the interpreter discusses the Japanese newspapers. He talks about Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, the commander-in-chief of the Japanese navy. The imperial headquarters announced his death on Friday, but he died back in April. A hero’s death on the front line. He was a military genius; he planned the attack on Pearl Harbor in America in 1941. The navy will do even better now, with its morale heightened by the loyal example of this superlative admiral.

  When the interpreter stops talking, the ambassador says, “Thank you. You can go now.”

  I flush. This is rude. The ambassador doesn’t even bow. But the interpreter takes it in stride. He and I exchange slight head bows, and he leaves.

  “So, did he do well on translating the Japanese news?”

  “Yes. But a new issue of Chikakiyori came out.” I pull it out of my book bag and lay it out on the ambassador’s desk. “The cover—it’s all about this admiral, too.”

  The ambassador goes around to his side of the desk and looks at the magazine thoughtfully, like always, though I suspect he can’t read a word. “But a different viewpoint, right? Maybe different information?”

  I open the magazine. “It says he was shot down on 18 April. Nearly a month ago. Over Bougainville.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m reading as fast as I can,” I say, keeping a steady voice. “Bougainville is one of the Solomon Islands. The Americans shot him down.”

  “Of course they did. He was a strategic idiot, to attack Pearl Harbor. That’s what made the Americans enter the war. That’s what’s going to make Japan lose.”

  He doesn’t mention Italy. And he’s not in a hurry. For once, he’s not in a hurr
y. This is my chance.

  “Please, sir, I have a question.”

  He looks at me.

  “What did the Polish Jews do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read that the Germans are killing them. What did they do?”

  His mouth hangs open for a moment. “What does the magazine say?”

  “I didn’t read it in this issue. I read it last summer. Back at the country villa. What did they do, those Polish Jews?”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “You can’t kill people for doing nothing.”

  The ambassador’s face is blank. He drops into his desk chair. “I don’t know the answer. No one tells me anything. Forget the old magazine, Simona. Tell me what this one says.”

  I turn my eyes back to the magazine. “Oh,” I gasp. “It says here that the Americans broke the Japanese code—they deciphered it. They knew Admiral Yamamoto’s locations and times on his final journey.”

  “Good heavens.” The ambassador taps the ends of his fingers together faster and faster. “God only knows what else they’ve figured out.”

  “It says that the Japanese navy has no chance of being effective now.”

  “Just the opposite of what the newspapers say.”

  “It has news about Germany, too.”

  “Battles?”

  “Last month German aircraft were shot down over Tunisia. A big defeat.”

  “North Africa is lost. I don’t know why anyone insists on keeping up the fighting there.”

  “There’s news about Jews again.”

  “Stop, Simona.” The ambassador sighs loudly. “You must understand. I have to keep my eye on the Pacific. And even then, I can’t do anything to affect what happens. I can only react. I don’t want to know about Europe unless Italy is directly involved.”

  “But this is good news. Sort of. In April, Jews in the Warsaw ghetto gathered explosives. They killed over one hundred Germans.”

  “How many Jews died?”

  I swallow. “More than a thousand.” I keep reading. “Maybe…” My voice cracks. “Maybe thirteen hundred.”