“I’ll measure,” I say to the shopkeeper.
The woman steps aside.
I measure out enough for the dresses. Then I measure out enough for the sashes. I step away and fold my hands in front of my waist in a gesture of finality.
The shopkeeper cuts the material and wraps it in rough hemp cloth that smells strongly of camphor. She announces her price.
Papà hands the package of material to me. He puts half the amount she asked for on the table and picks up his basket. “We will be back if we need more.”
“No!” The woman reaches for the package in my arms.
I twist away.
“Tell her the material is already cut, Simona. Tell her that cheating us will not bring back her dead. Nothing will bring back her dead, just as nothing will bring back ours.”
I translate.
The shopkeeper looks at Papà, and for a moment I think she might slap him. Then she turns and goes to sit on a stool in the corner.
Papà marches ahead of Carolina and me, stops outside a low building, and hands Carolina the grocery basket. “Wait here.”
“Let us come with you.”
He just looks at me.
We lean against the wall and wait. A boy on a bike skids to a stop and watches us. I stand in front of Carolina and glare at the boy.
Papà comes out, and the boy rides off.
Carolina runs and hugs Papà.
Papà kisses the top of Carolina’s head. He pulls a furoshiki out of his pocket. “Simona, you can use this to cover…my treat!” With a flourish, Papà uncorks a long-necked bottle under my nose.
I jerk back. “It stinks! What is that?”
“Pig wine,” he says. “Bootleg liquor. From sweet potatoes. Dresses for you; drink for me. These might be our last treats.” He smiles, but his eyes are as sad as his words. “Remember, it’s me who did this—not you. But it’s your job to keep quiet. You’re my silent partners. The best kind of partners.”
Even if what we’re doing is wrong, it feels good to conspire with Papà. Almost like being a hero in one of the Japanese songs at school.
I wrap the bottle in the furoshiki and carry it in both hands while Papà takes the basket. With Carolina between us, we make our way out to one of the busiest roads and weave through pedestrians and bikes and cars and little two-wheeled carts that hold a person and are pulled by a running man. Soldiers in reddish-brown uniforms rumble past in trucks that spew black clouds of exhaust. They wear caps with five-pointed stars at the front, and neck flaps at the back. Most are Papà’s age. How many of them are fathers?
When we get home, I put the persimmon into the bottom of a crock and pour rice over it. That’s the secret. Leave it under rice for a few days, and it will turn sweet. And the fruit doesn’t hurt the rice at all. Papà watches and smiles. He puts his hand on my back, and I lean against him.
Three days later my family shares the sweet persimmon.
8 SEPTEMBER 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN
It’s September and we’re back in school, but this term consists of only two things. The first is studying popular culture, or, as Papà whispered to me, propaganda. Papà’s attitude toward me has changed since he told me he’s looking for a way to get us home, and even more since our rebellion at the black market. He shares little whispered criticisms like that because he trusts me completely. Just as he helps me when I overhear things in the ambassador’s office, I now share his burden.
Popular culture studies include the teachers telling us that the Chinese are dying of starvation because of the failed Asian wheat crop. But Japan is better than China because Japan will not starve. Japan can get through anything. We must listen for dissenters, but not listen to them. We must report them to our teacher so that the Special Police who monitor how we think can arrest them. Even teachers should be reported on, to the principal. The good schoolgirls in Surugadai reported on teachers for spreading nasty rumors, so their school closed and they go to different schools now, with good teachers. They’re a model for us.
Third graders and up—so Carolina is included—are automatically in the regiments of the Great Japan Youth Association, which tells us it is honorable to sacrifice for the nation. Good families give up their annual vacation in favor of working. If our family has not yet made that decision, we should help them make it. When we go to the movies, we must remind our brothers and grandfathers to remove their caps whenever the emperor appears in a newsreel, or they’ll get arrested.
Women from the Great Japan Women’s Association write slogans on the blackboard. We copy and memorize them. “Be frugal and save.” “Luxury is the enemy.” One by one, we stand and take our turn holding documents at arm’s length and reading them aloud—all declarations about Japan’s history and glory.
When we read these things, I glance at Aiko. She always looks earnest, just like everyone else. She doesn’t glance at me. Resistance matters—those were the ambassador’s words—even if it’s only in our heads. Still, our resistance must stay a secret.
The second thing that fills our school day is war work. We make robes out of blue silk for wounded soldiers in hospitals, and underwear out of white silk for volunteer nurses. Unmarried women have an obligation to the nation. If you don’t want to do factory work, you must “volunteer” to help on the battle front.
Some of the girls use the treadle sewing machine that’s been installed at the rear of the classroom. I hand stitch. Right now I smooth the silk on my desk, pin the pieces of material together, and sew. Our teacher walks around, looking over shoulders. As she gets to me, I bend low, concentrating on my work.
“You are quick and your stitches are even,” she says.
My cheeks burn in unexpected pleasure. Just yesterday she announced that Christians are a scourge. I’m the only Christian. Today she’s praising me.
At a special morning recess we walk to the boys’ school and watch them practice fencing with wooden swords. I think I see Naoki, but I can’t be sure at this distance.
Music comes on, and the boys march inside single file. How I wish I could find Naoki and talk to him.
We girls troop back to our classroom and sew till lunchtime. Then some of us go off, like always. I know now that they’re the poorest ones, who go into a special room for food the government provides. The rest of us get our bento boxes from the shelves and eat in the classroom. Noriko produces a white sash covered with red stitches, the threaded needle still attached. She adds another knot stitch. “Who’s next?”
Keiko takes it. “Congratulations on your brother going to war.”
My stomach lurches. I didn’t know. How many have brothers at war? Or dead brothers?
“Thank you,” says Noriko. “He’s happy to serve the nation.”
Keiko stitches, then passes the sash. Each girl adds a stitch and congratulates Noriko. When the sash reaches Yoshie, she makes a stitch and leans past Shizue to hand it to Yukiko.
“I want to make a stitch,” says Shizue.
“You’re still eating,” says Yoshie.
Shizue blinks and bows her head. What’s going on? Shizue is usually included in everything. I bite my lip. I remember when I used to be left out.
The sash passes on till it gets to me. I make a stitch in an instant.
“You’re quick,” says Mutsuko, with an edge to her voice. “You should make a second.”
I make a second stitch. “Noriko?” I say. She looks at me. “Your brother is brave.”
“Thank you.”
I want to say she is brave, too. But she probably doesn’t want to hear that. “Can you tell me, please, what the sash is for?”
“It’s a sennin bari. Once it has a thousand stitches, my brother will wrap it around his body for safety, right under the flag. Every knot will be like a drumbeat, helping him be a good warrior.”
I know t
hose words. Sennin bari. Everyone helps. Everyone.
I stand up. I feel dizzy, but I carry the sash to Shizue. “I see you’ve finished eating,” I murmur. I hand her the sash with the needle. Shizue quickly makes a knot stitch. Then I go back to my place and pass on the sash.
When I finally dare to look around, Aiko’s eyes meet mine. Her eyes smile. The sash goes around the whole circle a few more times.
At the end of the lunch period, Yukiko whispers to me, “Sew slower, thief.”
Thief? What’s she talking about?
We go to second recess right after lunch, so I sit outside and try not to meet eyes with anyone.
Aiko sits beside me. “You did a good job of inaoru.”
Inaoru. Sit tall for what you believe. I did good at inaoru. It feels good to be told that. I run my finger around the edge of my shoe. “Yukiko called me a thief for sewing fast.”
“Her mother sews robes and underwear and sells them to the government. Most mothers do. If schoolgirls sew too fast, mothers can’t earn. They’ll have to make more comfort bags.”
“What are those?”
“Bags with gifts for soldiers. Our mothers assemble them and get a small price. But sewing pays more. Everyone needs the work.”
“I’ll slow down.”
“You know what you said about Noriko’s brother being brave? No one is brave anymore. But Oto, Noriko’s brother, can’t stand being a burden to the family. Their father was wounded and can’t work. The neighbors scorn them. They say it’s better to die fighting than to hang back so that you survive.” She digs her finger into the dirt. “The family can’t afford milk. Only families with small children get milk rations now, but Oto’s family needs it, because his mother is pregnant again.” She digs her finger deeper. “So Oto enlisted.”
“But he could work in a factory.”
“Those jobs pay less all the time.”
“A mine, then.”
“Koreans work the mines. For free.” Aiko looks at her dirty finger, then brushes it off. “They’re forced to. And it’s horrible work.”
“But war…” I hesitate and look around.
“Right,” whispers Aiko. “War is horrible work, too.”
“You and I,” I say as quietly as I can, “we don’t believe half the things they tell us. Yet you always look like you do.”
“I know how to compose my face. You should learn. You must learn.” Aiko takes a deep breath. “Oto is going to war because his father says it is honorable, the best way to help his family.” Aiko makes fists of both hands. “Oto-kun is scared out of his mind.”
It’s funny to hear her put –kun after his name. It’s like putting –chan after a girl’s name. It feels very dear. “How do you know?”
“He’s my sweetheart.”
I drop my head forward in disbelief. “You’re eleven.”
“What does that matter? I spent the summer vacation talking with him. That’s why I didn’t go to the villa with you.”
I look around at the girls skipping rope. It’s still a favorite recess game. They sing and laugh like little kids. Do any of the others have a sweetheart?
My eyes settle on Shizue, sitting alone. “Why is everyone mean to Shizue today?”
“Her mother was caught stealing food. The police brought her home and fined her. Shizue’s father is dead. Her oldest brother is in the army. She has three little sisters and a baby brother at home, plus her grandmother. There’s no one to help them.”
I grab a skipping rope off the pile beside me. “Shall we get Shizue?”
“Yes.”
8 SEPTEMBER 1943, TOKYO, JAPAN
Going home today, I’m happy, because Aiko and Shizue and I played all recess. Carolina skips ahead, excited by the promise of a fancy meal for supper. Two nights ago, a naval captain from Italy showed up at the embassy. He’s in charge of the Italian fleet in the Far East. The ambassador and the captain sat up drinking and talking. Today he’s coming back, so Papà is preparing a feast.
What’s that up ahead? Military police cars in the street outside the embassy. “Carolina! Wait!” I catch up to her, and we run. The gate stands open.
A policeman blocks our way. We bow. I force myself to speak slowly, though I can hardly think. “Please. We live here. Our father is the cook.”
The gate guard comes over. “They’re the ones I told you about.” He doesn’t look at us.
The policeman moves aside.
We run through the side door, rip off our shoes, and race inside. There are policemen everywhere. Carrying guns. The ambassador sits at the dining table, his head in his hands. I grab Carolina’s hand, and we race to the kitchen. No Papà there; not in the staff room, nor the little workroom off the kitchen. We run to our room. Papà opens his arms, and we rush to him.
“What’s going on?”
“Rome signed an armistice with the Allies. With our enemies—the Americans, the British, the Soviets,” says Papà, “last week, on 3 September. But it only got announced today.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Italy surrendered.”
“But what does that mean?” I shout now. “What’s happening?”
“Let’s all sit,” says Papà in a strained voice. “We’re together. That’s what matters.”
We huddle on the mat. “Tell us. Please, Papà.”
“I don’t know much. The ambassador only found out when the police showed up. The naval captain has been in the Pacific for a year, and he didn’t know, either. That’s what the ambassador told the police. And the naval captain told them the same thing.”
“How do you know what the captain said? Is he here?”
“He’s wounded—in a clinic.”
My heart stops. “They shot him?”
“No. What he told the police is that he got a telegram on his ship yesterday—saying that the fleet should make for the open sea fast, and if they didn’t think they could get there before the Japanese found out about the armistice, then the captain should sink his ships so that the Japanese couldn’t get them. The men threw equipment overboard, and opened the valves to flood the ships. And they made it to shore in smaller boats. That’s when they were captured. The captain fell and got hurt.”
“Do you really think he just fell?”
“I don’t know, Simona. The police showed up this afternoon. They’ve been questioning the ambassador ever since.”
“The captain must have told the police he’d been here at the embassy. He shouldn’t have! The police could think we knew about the plans to sink the ships. Those terrible plans! The captain got us all in trouble!”
“They knew the captain had been here, Simona. They knew already, when they arrested him. They must have been spying on us. The captain told them that he’d come from Shanghai to check out his fleet. He had stopped by the embassy for a social call. He explained that he didn’t get the orders to sink the fleet till noon yesterday, a day after he’d visited the embassy. But the police think that the captain came here to get orders from Rome via the embassy.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “The ambassador was going crazy because of Rome’s silence.”
“But the timing looks suspicious. And looks matter.” Papà strokes Carolina’s hair. “They say General Badoglio’s new government betrayed the Axis powers. And it has to be so, because someone gave the orders to sink the ships. That was disloyal to Italy’s pact with Germany and Japan.”
Disloyal. At school, they say disloyalty is the worst crime of all. “If they think we’re disloyal…”
“It’s the ambassador. Not us. We’re just servants.”
“Do you really think they’ll see it that way?”
Papà tucks Carolina’s hair behind her ears. “It’s the truth. We have no power. No knowledge.”
We sit as the a
fternoon sun fades. It’s as though we’re fading, too.
Carolina finally crawls out of Papà’s arms. “Want to play cards? Botan taught me. And Papà made Hitomi buy me my own deck. It’s used and dirty, but it’s a whole deck.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“I’ll get it.” Before Papà or I can stop her, she runs from the room. The policeman at the sliding partition lets her pass, but he blocks Papà and me.
I bite the side of my hand to keep from screaming. A moment later Carolina runs past the policeman again, and spreads the cards on the floor. Tears spring to my eyes.
“See?” she says. “That’s a cherry blossom. And that’s the moon. And that’s a bush warbler. Look at them! You have to look, or I’ll punch you.”
“Punch me?” And I laugh. Laughing is the last thing I expected.
Carolina laughs, too.
I kneel and look. Italian playing cards are exciting, with swords and clubs and kings and horses. But Japanese cards are calm, all about nature. I’ve always loved the look of them. I put all my attention on the game.
At five o’clock a policeman herds us into the dining room, where the ambassador and Pessa are seated at the table.
Another man reads from a paper: “Excellency, I have the honor to inform Your Excellency that there has arisen a state of war between Your Excellency’s country and Japan beginning today. I avail myself of this opportunity to renew to Your Excellency the assurances of my highest consideration.” He reads in Japanese, then puts another paper on the table in front of the ambassador. It’s in Italian.
The policeman says, “This letter is signed by Shigenori Togo, minister of foreign affairs.”
The ambassador reads the letter. “This is tragic,” he says in Italian. He looks at me.
The interpreter has disappeared. I translate into Japanese for the others in the room.
“Tragic,” repeats the man in Japanese. “And my duty is most distasteful.” He now reads another paper in Japanese. It’s about what will happen next. I don’t know some of the words he uses. He places a numbered list in Italian in front of the ambassador. He bows to the ambassador and to his wife, to the policemen, and he leaves.
In a Flash Page 11
