In a Flash

by Donna Jo Napoli

  The train stops in bigger stations now. I catch the name Shinagawa; that’s closer to the embassy than the Tokyo main station. I grab Karo-chan’s hand, and we try to fight our way up the jammed aisle. It’s impossible. But hands push us into a seat. Then they push us right out the window. We fall onto the platform. We’re lucky; neither of us is hurt. It’s easy to follow the signs for the local train that will take us to the Tamachi Station.

  Finally we arrive on the streets of Tokyo. I’ve never walked home from this station before, but I’m afraid to get on a bus. People here might be more wary than people in the countryside. They might take a second look at us and decide to call the police. I lead us north along the big road. I pray we’ll see something I recognize soon, because all I know is that the embassy is northwest of the station.

  As we walk, my chest tightens. I don’t recognize any of these stores.

  Karo-chan stops dead. “I won’t go.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t go back to the embassy.”

  “What makes you think we’re going there?”

  “That’s the shop where Papà bought coffee beans.”

  “Oh!” I kiss her cheek. “Good! Which way is the embassy? I just need to get my bearings so I can find the way from there.”

  “The way where?”

  And I know where. The idea has been forming all along. It might work. “To the washerwoman’s.”

  “The one who folds paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s blind.” Karo-chan smiles. “She won’t see our eyes. She won’t know who we are. Good idea, Simo-chan.”

  Karo-chan leads us through the streets till I recognize where we are. Then I take the lead. We part the curtain to the chiming of the bells. The washerwoman comes slowly, offering a polite greeting and bow. We greet her back, and her smile fades. “Where is your mother?”

  “We are alone,” I say.

  “Alone? Whose laundry did you bring?”

  “We didn’t bring laundry. We came to work for you.”

  “These days everyone does their own laundry except rich people. I don’t have enough work to keep myself busy.”

  “You would have more business if you repaired clothes as well. Rich people don’t like to sew.”

  The washerwoman pats her caved chest softly. “You can sew?”

  “I’m excellent at it.”

  “Excellent? Your sister is too young to be excellent at it.”

  “You’d be surprised,” says Karo-chan. “And I can plant potatoes in extra high mounds. I’m good in a garden. We both are.”

  “The neighbor’s boy helped me in the garden last summer and fall. But he was conscripted into the army a month ago. He can’t help me this year.”

  “We’ll make everything grow,” I say.

  “He guarded it for me so no one stole my vegetables.”

  “I can bark like a dog,” says Karo-chan.

  “The weather is just right for planting a new garden,” I say.

  “He checked my laundry for stains and moved my hands to the ones that needed more scrubbing.”

  “We’re very good at finding stains,” I say.

  The washerwoman pats her chest faster. Then she drops her hands and her mouth tightens into a pucker. “I can’t pay you. I’m barely managing. Go back home.”

  “We don’t want pay. We want a place to sleep.”

  “And something to eat,” says Karo-chan.

  “We’ll do anything you say.”

  The woman goes to the stool by her counter and sits. “I recognize your voice. I know everyone’s voice. Where’s your mother?”

  She must mean Hitomi. We used to come with Hitomi. “Gone,” I say.

  “And your father?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You’re orphans.”

  “We’re not orphans.” Karo-chan’s voice is sharp.

  “There are many war orphans. There’s no shame in that. They are skinnier than me. With legs like sticks and extended bellies. Naked boys with shaved heads.”

  “You don’t know!” says Karo-chan. “You can’t even see us. You can’t see them. How do you know those things? We’re not orphans! Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that!”

  I put my arm around her. “We’re not orphans,” I say quietly. “We just need help. And we will help you.”

  “I had three sons,” the washerwoman says. “The last one left home over a year ago. That’s why I needed the neighbor’s boy to help out.” She presses her lips together for a moment. “My sons died in this war. One, two, three, like that. One, two, three.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. “I’m sorry.” My voice is broken with tears. “Very sorry.”

  “Morainaki is a good thing. Maybe morainaki is the only thing holding Japan together these days. The only thing that makes us feel we are still a community. It helps.”

  Morainaki. Crying at the sight of someone else’s misery. “Everyone needs help,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  17 APRIL 1944, TOKYO, JAPAN

  The rain beats a steady rhythm on the roof. Karo-chan and I sing in time to it. Tanaka-san loves singing. That’s what we call the washerwoman. Her first name is Natsu; I overheard her answer questions when an official came to the shop. Tanaka-san has taught us so many traditional songs over these past two weeks that we could now sing a different song every day for a month. She leans her head side to side and claps as she sings. I love the plover’s song—where the little birds sing chi-yo, chi-yo so sadly. Most of the time, Tanaka-san sings with us, but right now she’s out waiting in a ration line.

  This is Tanaka-san’s home. The front part on the street serves as the laundry shop. Sliding partitions separate off the living space behind that. Karo-chan and I are now in the shop part, sitting behind a bamboo screen. The wonderful thing about a bamboo screen is that you can peer through it and still remain unseen. People on the other side view only your outline, not your face, your eyes. This way Karo-chan and I can watch for customers. If any come, we tell them to leave their laundry on the counter. There are several pairs of origami animals there. The customer puts one animal on their pile of laundry and takes the identical animal away as their receipt. All customers know the routine, of course. But Tanaka-san likes having her customers realize that someone behind the screen is watching, in case they have sticky-finger inclinations.

  I sit on the mat and sew. What I told Tanaka-san turned out to be true. There are still rich people in Tokyo, and they are grateful to find reliable workers who won’t overcharge them. But they are so rich, they don’t want their old clothes repaired. They want new clothes, and the stores in town have an ever-dwindling selection. So they come with material and we make clothing. Tanaka-san takes orders only for traditional pajamas, with a loose jacket top that overlaps at the front and ties in place, and short, drawstring pants that come down to the knees. Everyone wears them at home, and sometimes for quick errands. If we do a good job on the pajamas, Tanaka-san will consider taking orders for other clothing.

  The pajamas I’m sewing now are dark green silk. We’re making four pairs, for the mother and father and two small sons. I imagine them snuggling together at night in their matching pajamas, and I make very small stitches, to be sure nothing will come apart if they toss and turn in their sleep. Anyone would be proud to wear such pajamas. Papà would be proud of me for making them.

  I wonder about this pajama family. Why is the father not off being a soldier? But maybe the father isn’t at home—maybe he’s away at war. Maybe he’s in prison. Who knows what the mother doesn’t talk about?

  I don’t let Karo-chan help a lot. Too much depends on this work. If the pajamas come out right, Tanaka-san will keep employing us. I have to do everything perfect. Karo-chan sews decorative Xs across the ties on the jacke
t.

  Right now, though, she’s playing with rocks and leaves she gathered from Tanaka-san’s garden, where we work part of every day. The leaves are people while the rocks are animals. They seem to have a lot of disagreements over food. Karo-chan names the nicest leaf-person Botan. Karo-chan used to play like this in the internment camp, using any little bits of trash she could find. Rocks and leaves are better.

  At night Karo-chan plays with Lella. She sleeps with Lella tied to her chest. During the day she keeps the doll in the drawstring bag Kotsuru made, folded up in the futon we share. For safety, she says.

  The little bells on the curtain chime. I peek through the bamboo of the screen. Two policemen! They call out a greeting, and one of them lifts a sheet of paper from a hook by the door while the other scans the room. His eyes stop at our screen. “Who’s there?”

  I put down my sewing and kiss my finger, then touch Karo-chan’s lips with it. That’s our signal. We both wear white sashes around our foreheads. Now we pull them down over our eyes. These are different from the sweat sashes we came here with. They’re strips of gauze that Tanaka-san uses in cooking chicken. She hasn’t had a chicken to cook in a long time, though, and who knows when she next will, so she won’t miss them. We can see decently through them without revealing to others the shape of our eyes. I come out from behind the screen and bow from the waist as deep as I can.

  “What’s this? Covered eyes? So the blind washerwoman has a blind daughter.” The policeman’s face looks doubtful. “She never talked of a daughter before. And who’s that child behind the screen?”

  “Relatives help in time of need,” I say in my most respectful Japanese. I bow. But I’m clever. I bow facing the way I’m standing, not facing the policeman. That’s how Tanaka-san does it. “How can I serve you?”

  “This is an official inspection. Where’s your air-defense equipment?” He looks at the other policeman.

  That policeman reads off the sheet of paper. “It says here that you have two fire hoses, two helmets, one ladder, three fire extinguishers, two boxes of sand, three buckets, and two shovels. Where are they?”

  I stand very still. I don’t know where half those things are.

  “The shovels are in the garden.” Karo-chan comes out from behind the screen and bows. “I forgot to bring them in.” She feels her way dramatically along the room partition, slides it open, and disappears into the inner room. She looks phony, fumbling like that. The policemen must have noticed. My mouth goes sour.

  “Another blind relative?” the first policeman says incredulously.

  I bow and hold my hands behind my back to keep them from flying out. My whole body wants to fly away. Living with Tanaka-san has been too good. Nothing good can last.

  The second policeman says, “I heard that in Hayama many people eat only the rations; they have no money to buy anything else. Night blindness has become common. I didn’t know it had become so bad that it was total blindness. You’re from Hayama, aren’t you?”

  I bow.

  “They sound like Tokyo children to me,” says the first policeman.

  “Easy mistake,” says the second policeman. “Hayama is so close. But I have a good ear for accents.”

  Karo-chan comes in, soaked to the bone and dragging the shovels, which the rain cleaned at least. She brings them forward, then veers to the side and plops them down. “Here.” She addresses the wall. She’s the worst phony blind person I’ve ever seen. “I can bring the buckets, too.” Her hair drips pathetically.

  “Forget it,” says the first policeman. “Just tell the washerwoman to get one more helmet. There are three of you, not two. Everyone needs a helmet. If we are bombed, they will save you.”

  I bow. “I will relate this important information. Thank you very much.”

  “And be smarter than the washerwoman,” says the first policeman. “Give massages or wash hair. Good jobs for a blind person. I don’t know how the washerwoman gets out stains without seeing them. I wouldn’t trust her.”

  “Blind people know things,” says the second policeman. “They feel things you can’t feel. They hear things differently, too.”

  “Maybe,” says the first policeman. “But you listen to me, girl. Don’t expect people to keep bringing you their laundry. Give massages.”

  “Thank you for this important advice.” I bow repeatedly. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The policemen leave.

  I drop onto the floor on my bottom and wrap my arms around my knees. I shake all over.

  “We did good, Simo-chan. They’re gone.”

  “You overdid the blind part. Don’t bump along the wall like that.”

  She hits me on the head. “I brought the shovels. And I knew where the buckets were. Tell me I did good.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Say it!”

  “You did good.”

  “Call me Karo-chan.”

  “You did good, Karo-chan. We’re a good team.”

  Karo-chan collapses beside me.

  We sit there a long while, limp. Then Karo-chan changes into dry clothes while I hang her wet ones to dry. We go behind the screen again, me to my sewing and Karo-chan to her game. I watch the edges of her hair curl a little as they dry. Oh no! Maybe her hair will turn curly like mine and Papà’s. She’ll hate it if we need to cut it off. “Flatten the bottoms of your hair, Karo-chan.”

  Karo-chan presses her hair against her neck. Then she jumps to her feet. “I have an idea.” She runs into the back of the house and comes back wearing an air-defense helmet. It’s padded with cotton and it holds her hair in place, so it will dry flat.

  “A perfect idea. You have many perfect ideas, Karo-chan.”

  Tanaka-san finally comes home.

  “You were gone a long time.” Karo-chan takes her furoshiki from her.

  “Thank you, child. The ground was so slippery, I decided to wait for the rain to let up.” We follow her into the cooking area, and she unties the furoshiki and sets the few vegetables in a basket. “The price of rations has gone up again. It costs six sen for one person’s daily share now. And all they give are taro and bean sprouts and green onion. They say the farmers can’t produce enough crops.”

  “We’ll have lots in the garden soon,” I say. “The first potatoes are already planted. As soon as the rain stops, Karo-chan and I will plant the seeds you bought—pumpkin and spinach and beets.”

  “We’ll need more than that. We’ll have to buy seeds on the black market. And the ration distributors say there are no more seedling potatoes for the next planting. The woman in front of me in line complained of hunger, and the official told her to practice self-control. What’s she supposed to eat—the air?”

  “The rain is coming often now,” I say. “There will be more food, and the rations will increase. The garden will grow. It will get better.” When she doesn’t respond, I say, “What else can we do, anyway?”

  Tanaka-san makes a little humming noise and sways as she prepares tea. The knot of gray hair twisted at the back of her neck bobs along. She kneels and sits back on her heels. “Sit with me, girls. You have the right attitude, Simo-chan. Shikata ga nai.” My teacher used to say that, and the policeman said that in the embassy when he told us to make breakfast before they arrested us. Life goes on. We have to keep doing our jobs.

  Karo-chan settles on one side of Tanaka-san, and I settle on the other. “The police were here,” says Karo-chan.

  Tanaka-san stiffens. “What did they want?”

  “It was an air-defense inspection,” I say.

  “We need another helmet,” says Karo-chan.

  Tanaka-san reaches out and touches Karo-chan’s head. How does she aim so well, on nothing but sound? “Ah, you’re wearing one.”

  “I like it. But I’ll take it off now.”

  “No, no. Yo
u can wear it inside whenever you want.”

  I gesture to Karo-chan to take it off now. “How much does a helmet cost?”

  “I can borrow one from the neighbor till her son comes home from war.” Tanaka-san stands a moment in thought. “Help me fill the pot, Simo-chan. I have laundry to do.”

  I lift the big pot, and clank! The bottom of the pot falls out. It clangs against the firestone! It’s old and tired and ruined now.

  “Disaster.” Tanaka-san touches the pot sides. Her face looks utterly hopeless.

  “I’ll get another,” I blurt out. “Karo-chan, play behind the screen while I’m gone.”

  “No!” Karo-chan runs into the inner room where we sleep.

  “What are you talking about?” Tanaka-san reaches for me, but I’m already sliding the door open. “There are no pots,” she says. “There are no metal goods anymore.”

  “I’ll get one on the black market.”

  “Even if you can find one, how will you pay for it?”

  “I have a little money. And when the money is gone, it’s gone. I was saving it for an emergency. This is an emergency. I’ll be back.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Karo-chan is at my side again, stuffing Lella inside her shirt.

  “Stay with me, Karo-chan,” says Tanaka-san.

  “I stay with Simo-chan.” Karo-chan lifts an angry face to me. “You promised you’d never leave me again.”

  “You’ll be safer here with Tanaka-san.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know except the merchant.” Tanaka-san pats her chest. “And offer less money than the merchant asks for.”

  “I’m good at this,” I lie.

  We slip our gauze sashes over our eyes and step out the door just as an old man comes up the walk.

  The man holds out his hands. “Wait. Give me something to eat.” So many beggars line the streets, but I’ve never seen one go door-to-door.