3 NOVEMBER 1944, TOKYO, JAPAN
Obasan coughs. “Maybe I won’t go with you.”
“But it’s sunny today,” says Karo-chan.
“My chest says it’s still October.”
October was a rainy month, as bad as July. Obasan’s cough won’t go away. “We can do it without you,” I say. “You stay warm.”
We search for our geckos, Kaede and Masaki. Kaede means maple tree and Masaki means great timber. We named them that because Naoki’s name means honest timber, and he’s their father.
“Here they are,” calls Karo-chan.
They’re not in their favorite corner. Instead they’re nestled inside the clothes cupboard. Maybe they followed a moth in the night. We cup our hands around them and scoop them away. They crawl up our arms. It tickles. We set them into the pot full of leaves that is their daytime home, safe from laundry customers. Our geckos will never wind up in anyone’s belly.
I put the last peach, the last plum, on a dish on the counter, hidden under a cloth. Obasan’s nose and fingers will tell her they are there. They are shriveled, but still good.
We didn’t dry any fruit to preserve for later. They were so delicious fresh, and then, we had to give the neighbor half our plums, and Naoki thanked us so profusely every time we gave him some, so how could we set any aside for winter? We ate them, juice dripping down our chins, and listened to the radio and to the professor, and everything ugly they said was terrifying…but somehow unreal. We haven’t seen bombs or bullets. But we’ve eaten fruits. Fruits sealed us away, safe.
As of today, the fruits are gone. We spent summer and autumn so far standing in line for our rations. We didn’t need anything else because our vegetables and fruits were enough. Now, though, we have to go to the black market again, just like everyone else. That’s where we’re going today. There will be hardly any rice or fish—but we’ll find something.
We put on our gauze sashes and walk, at the same pace we’d go with Obasan, a blind pace.
“Obasan is sick,” whispers Karo-chan. “The professor is sick, too.”
“It’s just coughs. They’ll both get better soon.”
“Good.”
It surprises me that Karo-chan is still comforted by what I say. Nothing feels sure to me.
An old woman comes out of her home and walks ahead of us. An old man, wearing only pants in this November chill, comes from the other direction. He asks her, loudly, “What’s the news?”
The old woman shakes her head and keeps walking.
The old man shouts behind her. “What’s happening in the war?” He crosses the street and wanders off.
There’s a postbox ahead.
“Slow down,” I whisper to Karo-chan. “Let’s take a good look as we pass.”
Lots of rakugaki in blue ink. That’s the color of the last jar I gave to Naoki. We have only two jars left now. This scribble shows three people. I can’t tell if they are children. I can’t tell if they are male or female. They wear shirts and long pants, and their arms and legs peek out like bones. They are on their hands and knees, eating from a garbage heap. A woman stands beside them, smiling—lips closed, like a modest Japanese woman.
We keep moving. My heart hammers. It’s against the law to even look at rakugaki. But I saw enough. I’m nearly sure Naoki did these, alone. His two friends from before are gone. One was picked up by the police, and Naoki didn’t tell me what happened to the other. Just like he never told me what happened to his uncle. Or to his mother, Hitomi.
Up ahead a few people gather on a corner. They’re looking up.
“Don’t look up,” says Karo-chan.
I don’t think I would have, but I’m grateful she reminded me. We walk to the edge of the group, and I bump into a woman. I apologize over and over.
“You poor blind children,” says the woman. “You can’t see it.”
“See what?”
“A giant jellyfish. It’s drifting in the sky.”
Is she insane?
“It’s a balloon,” says another woman. “I heard it on the radio just a moment ago. There will be many more. Rubberized silk balloons.”
“What for?” I ask.
“A surprise weapon. Against the Americans. The radio promised to explain it all later.”
Karo-chan and I bump our way around the people, which now form a small crowd, and continue in the direction of the black market.
“I want to see,” says Karo-chan.
“Let’s find a bokugo.”
In the next block, there are two, end to end. We stumble getting in, like blind people would. But now we can turn our faces upward. No one will see us unless they come up to the edge and look down into this bokugo.
We wait. Soon enough a balloon sails over us. Enormous. Lots of things dangle from the bottom. They do seem like jellyfish tentacles. We squat there a long while. It must be nearly an hour before another balloon sails over us.
Karo-chan climbs out. I follow her. It seems all of Tokyo has taken to the streets, looking up, wondrous.
The market is abuzz with rumors. People say the balloons have bombs inside, with little gadgets that will set the bombs off when they land. But they won’t land in Japan. The wind will carry them to America, where they’ll kill everyone.
Karo-chan and I buy a small bit of fish and go home under a sky now littered with balloons, all carrying the hope of death.
27 DECEMBER 1944, TOKYO, JAPAN
Karo-chan ties a knot in the end of her thread and sews. “My birthday was pitiful.”
I don’t know why she’s talking about that now. Her birthday was three weeks ago. She’s ten; she should make more sense. But I can’t argue with what she said. That day a huge earthquake near Nagoya shook the east coast of Japan. It caused a tsunami, and lots of people died. The internment camp that we escaped from is in Nagoya. I think of Mariella and how nice she was that last morning, when I lay under the futon all cramped up. Is Mariella safe now? And the ambassador and Pessa, and all of those captured Italians?
Karo-chan says, “Pitiful, and everything has gotten worse since then.”
That’s true, too. After the earthquake, Americans dropped bombs on Nagoya. The radio didn’t say how many died, and the professor didn’t know this time. Then America targeted Tokyo. Their planes come every night. The Japanese air force chases them away and their anti-aircraft guns make showers of metal fragments that rattle our houses.
The winter has turned hideously cold. Winds chill us no matter how many layers of clothing we put on. Karo-chan and I shiver in the ration lines as people cough and talk about relatives in the hospital with pneumonia. They complain that farmers outside Tokyo are cutting down orchards for firewood. That’s crazy, because they won’t have any fruit to sell next year, but I believe it. Each household was rationed a single bag of charcoal for the winter.
“Christmas was the worst ever,” says Karo-chan.
Ah, so that’s it. “I told you, we’ll have some kind of treat soon. Something that will make all three of us happy.”
“Promise.”
I haven’t yet figured out our treat. Still, I’m opening my mouth to promise, when a girl comes into the laundry. Even from our hiding place, I hear her teeth chatter.
She bows. “I have an important basket,” she announces as though standing in front of a crowd. “It’s full of materials for making dolls. We need volunteers to sew them. Oh! Are you…” She takes a few steps more into the laundry. “You’re blind. I didn’t know.” She bows and turns to leave.
“Wait,” I call. I know that girl. It’s my old classmate Noriko. I sewed stitches in the sash that her brother wore into battle. Her brother, Oto, was Aiko’s sweetheart. “Obasan, please. We can help.”
Noriko hesitates.
“What is this all about?” says Obasan.
“Kamikaze.” Obasan sighs loudly. “Those new forces.”
“They started in October, and they’re very successful.”
“The kamikaze pilots fly a plane directly into an enemy ship,” says Obasan.
“They never miss their target,” says Noriko.
“It’s a suicide mission.”
Noriko walks closer to Obasan. “It’s patriotic.”
“What are the dolls for?”
“The pilots need dolls with them in their planes.”
“So these pilots are really boys,” says Obasan.
“They’re loyal citizens, defending our country.” Noriko steps even closer to Obasan. “They’re young and brave. Some are orphans. Some come from the countryside. They gather here in Tokyo, and they need…comfort in the airplane.”
“A doll,” says Obasan, pressing her hands against her chest. “A doll to die with.”
“Think about it, old lady. There’s no more metal to make new planes or bombs. So these pilots fly beat-up planes into targets—planes that are useless in battle but that make the best bombs. These pilots are heroes. The dolls are not to die with; they are to win with.”
Obasan shakes her head.
“Would you rather we lose the war?” Noriko’s voice threatens.
“Leave us the materials,” I call out. “We’ll make the dolls.”
Noriko doesn’t seem to recognize my voice. Of course not—we were barely friends. She puts the basket on the counter. “It’s good to see you understand. I’ll come back tomorrow to fetch the finished dolls. There are materials here for three dolls. Make them as big as you can.” She bows toward our screen, but not toward Obasan. I’m glad Obasan can’t see her.
After she leaves, I spread the squares of cloth out with care. Karo-chan draws a doll, and we figure out together how to make them. I cut the cloth, we blow on our fingers to warm them, and we sew like mad.
“I don’t think Obasan is really old,” says Karo-chan.
“You know that’s just how you speak to women who live alone.”
“I know. But she isn’t old. Is she?”
“No. It’s just her gray hair.”
“Good,” says Karo-chan. “I want her to live forever.”
We’re both so fast now that we finish the dolls by late afternoon.
Karo-chan peeks into the basket. “There’s nothing to stuff them with.”
I grab the scissors and cut off all my hair. The pile is pathetic, because I keep my hair short. I look at Karo-chan. Hers is long.
She meets my eyes. “No.”
I look down.
“Wait here.” Karo-chan gets up and runs outside. She comes back with a small basket full of fruit pits.
We stuff the dolls, and Karo-chan presses one of the dolls against her cheek. “They’re lumpy,” she says, and picks up the scissors. She holds a lock of hair straight out, shuts her eyes, and cuts it off. She blinks rapidly and hands me the scissors. “You finish.”
We stuff the hair all around the pits, till the dolls are properly thick and soft. “They’re lovely now,” I say. I kiss her cheeks.
She paints plum pits black and shiny with ink from our last jar, and we sew them on, arranged in big circles as eyes. The dolls don’t need a nose or mouth, but they need eyes to watch over the kamikaze boys—the divine wind boys.
I secretly save the scraps of material and a small bit of Karo-chan’s hair. I have a plan.
After dinner the air-raid sirens sound. We keep talking; then we go to sleep.
Pop-pop-pop-pop! Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!
I wake and jump up to sitting.
“Hurry.” Obasan stands over us.
We’re already dressed because we sleep in our ordinary clothes for warmth, so we put on our wooden clogs and run outside. A plane bursts into flames and streaks red through the black night, and falls in the middle of the city. Karo-chan and I stand, horrified. I describe the whole thing to Obasan. We wait, but nothing else happens. So we go back inside.
There are no more sirens, no more anti-aircraft fire. But I lie there and see red streaks cross the ceiling. They’re not real, but I see them even with my eyes closed.
As dawn creeps into the room, I get up and take out the scraps left from making the dolls, and sew carefully.
When Obasan and Karo-chan finally wake, I turn on the radio. It says fifty American planes were shot down over Tokyo.
“Fifty?” says Karo-chan. “We saw only one.”
“What does it matter?” I say. “No one believes the radio.”
We hear shouting. People stand in the street and cheer, “Banzai!”
We shut the door against the icy wind.
“Idiots,” says Obasan.
“Maybe not,” says Karo-chan. “No one is smiling.”
“We need smiles,” I say, and I hand Karo-chan the present I sewed.
She examines it, and beams. “A toy gecko.” She hands it to Obasan.
Obasan feels it, and her face lights up. “We can all play with it.”
Karo-chan hugs herself in happiness. “Even Lella.”
24 FEBRUARY 1945, TOKYO, JAPAN
Obasan stands at the sink, preparing breakfast. “Oh no!”
Karo-chan hurries over. “There’s no water!”
“It froze.” Obasan sinks to the floor and sits on her heels. “That means our pipe burst. Last night was just too cold.”
I pull the gauze sash down over my eyes. “I’ll find someone to fix it.”
“Who?” says Obasan. “Everyone is dead or in the military. How would we pay them anyway?” She slaps her chest. “What am I saying? There are no pipes to replace it with. Simo-chan, come crawl under here. Turn the shut-off valve, so we don’t have a flood when the water in the pipe thaws and leaks out the crack.”
I’m on my knees turning the valve when someone comes into the laundry. My back is to the person, and I’m covered by the sink. But where is Karo-chan? I pull the gauze sash over my eyes and wait under the sink.
“Aha! I’ve caught one of the mysterious girls out in the open.” It’s the professor. I don’t know whether to be relieved or frightened. “Let me see you, lovely one.”
“Forgive my rudeness, honorable professor,” I say, “but I prefer not. Please turn your back while I go behind the screen.”
He doesn’t speak. But I don’t hear him move, either.
“I beseech you, Sensei,” I say.
I hear his feet on the mat. I peek. His back is to me. I run behind the screen, where Karo-chan hugs me. Her gauze sash is also in place.
“Modesty is a virtue.” The professor turns and bows, then places his laundry on the counter.
“I didn’t expect you,” says Obasan. “It’s Saturday.”
“True,” says the professor. “But something has come up, so I cannot come tomorrow.” He sits on the mat.
“I apologize profusely,” says Obasan, “but I cannot offer you tea. Our pipe froze.”
“Do you really think I come for the tea, perfect though it may be? I can’t miss a week with you. You allow me to speak. My only freedom.”
Obasan bows and sits on her heels across from the professor. “I am humbled to be able to offer anything.”
“Have you heard from your brother lately? New poems?”
“Nothing,” says Obasan.
“I received a message from him.”
Obasan waits.
“Open this once I am gone.” The professor holds out a thick envelope.
“I don’t want it.”
How does she know what’s in it?
The professor puts the envelope on the floor in front of Obasan. “You know that Americans firebombed Kobe three weeks ago?”
he says. “And that American bombers hit Tokyo last Monday?”
“The port,” says Obasan.
“And some areas of the city.” The professor rubs his chin. “Go to Hokkaido. Do your brother a favor. Do me a favor.”
“Perhaps when you leave Tokyo, I will leave Tokyo.”
The professor laughs. “Your cleverness is a joy. In the midst of misery.” He sighs. “You know that the imperial forces sank an American battleship on Wednesday?”
“I am blind, not deaf.”
“Two kamikaze pilots hit the ship.”
“Maybe they had our dolls,” Karo-chan blurts out, leaning close to me.
“What’s that?” asks the professor.
“We made them dolls,” says Karo-chan. “Three.”
“Those boys are duped,” the professor says, almost in a shout. He stands and walks in that circle. “There’s no point to their sacrifice. Japan cannot possibly win. Our government is murdering the people.” He crumples to his knees. “Mere boys. And deep inside those boys know it’s futile. Imagine what that’s like.” He cries.
Karo-chan starts to get to her feet. I grab her and prevent her from going to him. He might still be a danger to us. But I know how Karo-chan feels. We’re all crying.
The professor sits. “Everyone’s suffering. The German city of Dresden was burned out ten days ago. Germany is lost. France presses from the west. Italy from the south.”
My Italy! I go on alert. But the professor falls silent. I clench my fists and press them against my mouth to keep from asking.
The professor says, “After the bombing of the aircraft factory at Ōta, the government said there must be spies in Japan. Otherwise the Americans could never have known where that factory was.”
“I heard this on the radio,” says Obasan. “The government makes sure we get broadcasts, whether or not we have heat or water.”
“Now every resident of Tokyo is ready to denounce everyone else. You can’t feel those accusing eyes, my friend. Your blindness protects you. But we’re all afraid of being reported for any little thing. Our society, our sense of community—ruined.”
I’ve felt this. Now, when Karo-chan and I go to get rations, strangers’ eyes examine us closely. I’m rigid with the fear of being discovered.
In a Flash Page 22
