“That’s good news?”
“They fought back.”
My words sound foolish.
The ambassador is silent. Then he nods. “The Jews fought back, yes. That has to be good. Resistance matters.”
I shiver. To talk like this is treason. Death. I must forget this conversation. But the ambassador’s words play in my head: Resistance matters.
“All right, Simona. You did well. Someone from the Vatican embassy is coming after dinner. Eat fast and get back here.”
Anyone from the Vatican embassy will be Italian. The conversation will be in Italian. So why does the ambassador want me there? But the look on his face keeps me from asking.
I go to the kitchen and pick at my dinner.
Papà glances at Carolina. Then he says softly to me, “Did you learn something…dreadful?”
Carolina jerks to attention. “Dreadful?”
“I’m not hungry.” I look at Papà.
I hurry back to my corner in the ambassador’s office. Soon I hear an engine outside. Noisy. It must be that showy red car.
When the man comes into the room, the ambassador lights a candle and the two of them stand in the glow and talk. I watch, invisible. The Vatican man says that Italians are tired of starving for a war they don’t understand. It’s as bad as Japan, he says. Soldiers desert. Italians threaten revolution. It’s time to tell the Allies how to reach victory over Japan.
I have to keep myself from jumping to my feet. How could he say that!
The ambassador asks, “What do you mean—precisely?”
“I recommend you and your wife leave Japan.”
“Safely? How?”
I strain to hear. But the man only shrugs, shakes the ambassador’s hand, and leaves.
The ambassador slaps his hands on his desktop and leans there, looking into the dark. “Why doesn’t Rome tell me what’s happening? I can’t get through to anyone.”
He stands there so long, I finally cough.
He says, “In Italy most people distrust the rebels—the underground. Did you know that? The underground bombs bridges so military equipment can’t be transported to the battle front. They blow up arms factories. They say this war is not about regaining Italy’s past glory, but about killing off whoever Hitler hates so he can rule the world. People don’t know who’s telling the truth.”
I swallow.
“But here, the underground feels like it’s our best friend. Without that magazine you bring me, I might think that the Vatican was exaggerating, as they usually do. I believe that magazine.”
I want to run away.
“Go to bed, girl.”
I walk to our room, stand beside Papà’s futon, and listen, hoping he’s awake. No sound but breathing. I creep past Carolina onto my futon, and stare into the black night. I want to talk to Papà.
But, really, everything I could say, Papà knows already. Signor Rosati was right to leave when he could, even if passage wasn’t safe.
Because we aren’t safe here.
10 JULY 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN
I dress in my white shirt and dark-blue checked pants. School clothes. Girls used to wear jumper-dresses, but in April, at the start of this school year, everyone changed to pants; they cost less.
An engine roars outside our window. I watch that red car from the Vatican embassy disappear out through the gate. The fact that it was here can’t mean anything good.
I hurry to the staff room, where Papà sits on the floor with the rest of the servants. They have box trays in front of them, each holding a steamed sweet potato in a bowl. It’s been months since we ate rice at breakfast. Papà is at the edge of the group, and no one is looking at him, so I lean over from behind and kiss his cheek, as though we’re in private. Or in Italy.
“Go into the kitchen,” Papà says in Italian. He rests his elbows on his knees and doesn’t look at me. “I’ll meet you there.”
I whisper, “Why did the Vatican embassy send a man in that stupid car again?”
Papà turns to me. “Didn’t you hear me? Go.” His eyelashes are wet. He’s been crying! He hasn’t cried since Mamma’s funeral.
In the kitchen, Carolina is holding both our lunches. “You got up early,” I say.
“I’m surprised you didn’t. The ambassador woke Papà.”
“Why?”
Carolina shrugs. “Eat fast.”
Papà comes in, and I clutch his hand. “What’s going on?”
His eyes dart to Carolina.
Carolina tugs Papà’s sleeve. “I’m going to learn about it anyway.”
“The man brought a message from the Vatican, so we’d know before the radio announced it.” Papà leans down and pulls us close to his face. “The Americans invaded.” He puts one hand on my shoulder and the other on Carolina’s. “They’re in Sicily.”
I step backward in horror. Sicily is the big island in the south of Italy. “Let us stay home,” I say. “Please. It’s Saturday. We can all be together for two whole days. Please.”
Papà shakes his head. “We can’t bring trouble upon ourselves.” He looks at Carolina. “Both of you are clever; you understand. If trouble comes on its own, we’ll deal as best we can. But, for now, we act the same as always.” Papà kisses one of my cheeks as he pats the other. He does the same to Carolina. “Not one word about this to anyone,” he whispers. “It’s still the middle of the night in Italy. The invasion started only hours ago. No one outside the embassy knows yet. It’s impossible to predict what will happen next. Sicily is lost, but who knows what will happen to the rest of Italy. To Japan. To the world.”
Hitomi comes into the kitchen.
Papà steps away from us. “Go to school,” he says loudly in Japanese.
“We’re going,” says Carolina in Japanese. “But eat your breakfast first,” she adds to me. “Quick.”
I take a bite of sweet potato. Sicily has been invaded.
Another bite. Papà is afraid.
I finish my sweet potato, though it makes me feel sick.
We walk out the embassy gates, and my head buzzes. How far is Sicily from Rome? How far are the Americans from Nonna and Zio Piero? The map of Italy in my head has blurred.
The ambassador and Papà think that the Americans can beat anyone.
Japan and Germany and Italy—all of them are doomed. And Italy might be first.
When we aren’t even a block from the embassy, a girl comes running from the side street with a boy chasing behind; his outstretched hands are red and wet. The girl clutches a dog to her chest. It’s Mutsuko, from my class. Tears drip down her face. Carolina and I run and get to the corner just as she does.
The boy catches up to Mutsuko and yanks at her arms. His hands are bloody!
She shouts, “No! Go away!”
“Stop!” I yell. I step closer. “Leave her alone.”
“Go home, ishuu,” says the boy.
That old nickname. I want to put my hands over Carolina’s ears. We’re the only foreigners.
The boy pushes Mutsuko hard and grabs the dog as she falls. He stomps away with the howling dog. Mutsuko sobs. I take her arm.
“Let go!” She twists free. “It’s your fault.”
“Me?”
“Your dumb people are such bad fighters, we have to fight that much harder.”
“Sicily’s not my fault.”
“What’s Sicily?”
Oh no. I press my lips shut.
“And now they’re killing our dogs.”
“Who’s killing dogs?”
“Everyone. In Minami-Azumi in Shinshu they killed every dog and gave the hides to the army. For making clothes. Now people want to do it here, too. I hate you.” Mutsuko runs ahead.
I turn to Carolina, who looks shocked. “Don’t listen to her,” I say. “She didn�
��t mean that.”
“Maybe she did,” says Carolina. “Some people hate Westerners.”
“Americans and British and French. That’s who they hate. We’re Italian. We aren’t like the other Westerners.”
“Maybe they don’t know that.” Carolina walks ahead a few steps. “Come on, Simona. We have to go to school. That’s just how it is.”
She sounds like she did last year, when the Americans bombed Tokyo. All grown-up.
We see Mutsuko join the group of girls ahead of us. They close around her like a protective blanket. No one waits for us. When we move a little faster to catch up, they go even faster.
Only Aiko glances back. Once.
It’s as though everyone agrees with Mutsuko. They’re protecting her from us.
“They’ll get over it,” I say to Carolina.
I expect her to make me promise.
But she doesn’t.
15 JULY 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN
Five days later, I hold out my math exam as the teacher collects them. I clean my ink brush and put it away with care. It has to last. We used to get new brushes when the old ones lost their softness, but no more. The factories in Japan make nothing but weapons now.
It’s the middle of July and the end of this school term. School terms always end in hideous exams. For three days all the girls say ganbatte—persevere—to each other. It’s as close to wishing luck as we get.
Today the school day is short because we have an air-raid defense practice. The morning radio gave sermons about the value of military drills and teamwork. So we broke into teams; some cleaned our classroom, some cleaned the halls, some cleaned the playground. Then we took exams. Now the Adult Assistance Group is bringing a treat. We wait with folded hands.
Women march into our classroom holding placards that say TOKYO-TO. We jump to attention. Two weeks ago, the government declared that the name of the capital city would change to cover the whole prefecture area, so it’s Tokyo-to now. A bigger, more important name. We bow low from the waist and cry, “Tokyo-to.”
The lead woman blows a whistle. Even though it isn’t an official air-raid drill, we drop to the floor, facedown. Something pokes my back. I squirm away. It pokes harder.
“Get up.”
I stand.
The woman turns to my teacher. “Who is this child in the pants?” Somehow all the other girls are in kimonos today.
“Her father works in the Italian embassy.”
The woman’s face grows stony. “Italy?” She leans toward me. “That Mussolini of yours has made a fine mess. If he had any honor, he’d commit suicide.”
I don’t even blink. Mussolini is prime minister of Italy, but I don’t care about him. I don’t remember what he looks like. He has nothing to do with the Italy in my head—Nonna’s Italy.
I’m not shocked, either. People mumble about the honor in suicide.
What bothers me is the look on her face. Does this woman hate me just because of Mussolini? What he does isn’t my fault. She’s an adult; she knows that. I lift my chin and will it not to tremble.
Thump! Thump, thump, thump! Two women dump folded cloth onto the floor at the front of the room—stars and stripes—American flags. They tell us to spread them out and jump on them. “Remember the Battle of Attu. Let it never happen again! Don’t let the Solomon Islands be a repeat!”
I steal a glance at Keiko. Her brother was killed at Attu. But Keiko’s face shows nothing. She gets in line like everyone else.
We jump on the flags. I trample with all my strength. America is my enemy, too, doubly so. My classmates may be thinking only, “Remember Attu,” but I’m adding, “Remember Sicily.”
The women produce big puppets of the British prime minister, Winston Churchill, and the American president, Franklin Roosevelt. They give us bamboo spears and tell us, “Stab them!”
We shout “Die! Die!” as we stab. I hate Prime Minister Churchill. I hate President Roosevelt. We don’t stop till the puppets are shredded and our spears lie in splinters.
At lunch I sit in the circle of girls, beside Aiko.
“I’m sorry they talked about Attu,” says Aiko softly. “I’m sorry about your brother, Keiko.”
“Don’t be.” Keiko is on Aiko’s other side, but she speaks loudly so we all hear. “I’m not envious that your brother is still alive,” she says. “Every night my family expresses our gratitude to Riku’s spirit for having brought us honor.”
“A hero’s death,” says Misato.
“Right. My mother says, ‘Okuni no tame ni.’ ”
Okuni no tame ni. For the sake of the country.
“Okuni no tame ni,” come quiet repetitions around the circle.
Aiko’s lips move, too, but I can’t hear any noise from her mouth.
I bow my head, so no one can see my face. If a brother of mine died in battle, I wouldn’t be grateful to him. I’d want him to come home again and be my big brother. I’m sad for Keiko. And angry. Today, I’m furious.
We walk home in our usual group, with Aiko and Carolina and me at the rear. An old man in a kimono and fat pants that end in a puff at his knees waddles down the street. I point. “Those pants! Doesn’t he make you laugh?”
Aiko puts both hands over her mouth. Then she whispers out of the side of her mouth, “That clothing shows patriotism. You have to wear it for all air-raid drills now, and whenever else you’re told.”
“Were people told today?”
“Yes.”
So that’s why everyone else wore a kimono. “How were they told?”
“The radio this morning.”
Papà plays the radio in the kitchen while he chops food on the big board. This morning, though, he didn’t turn it on. I had gotten up early to study extra for the exams. He didn’t want the radio to distract me.
Everyone else heard, though. Everyone else wore kimonos. What must they think of me and Carolina?
We’re scrutinized all the time. I can hardly bear it.
Just two more days till the term ends, and we go to the country villa. Aiko isn’t coming this year. She said she can’t tell me why, only that it has nothing to do with our friendship. We are best friends. Forever.
It will be all right. Being just Carolina and me until September will be all right.
An escape.
25 JULY 1943, NIKKO AND TOKYO, JAPAN
We arrive at the villa after the long, crowded train rides—Hitomi and us in coach class, and the ambassador and Pessa in first-class. The train was crowded today. I can’t wait to swim in the lake and wander under the cool halo of the forest trees.
The ambassador puts his hands on his hips, and his chest swells as he takes a deep breath. “It’s good to be out of the city. Let’s drop our things and walk along the lakeshore for a while.”
“I’ll go prepare supper,” says Papà.
“No. Let the Japanese woman make something simple. I want a walk. It’ll do us good.” A look passes between him and Pessa. “The five Italians.”
This feels odd. I don’t like leaving Hitomi out, no matter what she thinks of me.
Oh, what if the ambassador has something private to tell us about Italy?
But as we walk along the shore, the ambassador stays silent. He was right: the wind off the water soothes our spirits. I sense a calm spread over us.
“Back now,” says the ambassador, turning and lifting both arms as though he’s a bird about to take flight. “Let’s put on bathing suits and swim.”
Pessa lets out a small laugh, and Carolina and I run ahead.
A man is waiting on the pebble beach, a servant from the embassy. He bows to the ambassador. “Your excellency, Mussolini is no longer in power. Badoglio is the new prime minister.”
“Badoglio, the army general?” the ambassador says slowly in Japanese,
but turning to me.
The man nods. “The king declared martial law in Italy.”
The ambassador repeats the Japanese words, stunned, “Martial law?”
“In Italy, the army has taken over. Soldiers patrol the streets. No calls are going through. No telegrams. You’re needed in Tokyo immediately.”
The ambassador looks at me, and I translate.
“Tell him we’re coming, Simona.”
We pile back onto the next train.
“Let’s pretend this train is taking us to Italy,” says Carolina in Italian.
I don’t like it when she speaks Italian in front of Hitomi. Hitomi might suspect we’re saying disloyal things about Japan. But I know Carolina’s disappointed that our vacation has been stolen. I am, too. So I answer in Italian, “You know a train can’t get us there. Tokyo is on an island.”
“Honshu Island.”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you pretend just for a while? You’re not that big, you know. Let’s pretend it’s months ago. It’s spring and we’re on the train so that we’ll get to Italy in time for Nonna’s sixtieth birthday.”
“Look at the cherry blossoms,” I say.
Carolina dutifully looks out the window. There are only massive cedar trees. But she nods. “They’re beautiful. The best pink in the world. Like kitten tongues.”
“Kitten tongues?”
“Botan’s cat had kittens. She said their tongues are the color of cherry blossom petals.”
I’m surprised Hatsu still has a cat. No one has extra food for pets these days. I pat Carolina’s leg. “Listen to the wheels. They’re turning fast. We’ll be in time for Nonna’s birthday.”
Carolina snuggles against me despite the heat in the train car. “Tell me about Italy. I can’t remember. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?” I smile.
“People eat chocolate on bread,” says Carolina. “Tell me about that.”
“You already know about that. See? You remembered it.”
“Tell me. Tell me something new about Italy.”
“In the summer, you put lemons in ice.” I remember those hot heavy days. “Then you cut them in half and sprinkle them with sugar and suck on them.” I remember each little sack of juice before it burst in my mouth. The scent. The perfect sweet and sour. The crystal cold in the stifling heat.
In a Flash Page 9
