“It snowed yesterday,” says Obasan at last. “And it’s snowing now.”
The professor goes to the door and peeks out. “How did you know?”
“Blind people know things,” says Obasan with a smile. “Even if we can’t feel eyes watching us.”
“I am delighted to see that pride glimmering inside you, Tanaka-san. I apologize if I offended you.”
“I still have a small bit of coal. But better than that, I have firewood from our old camphor tree,” says Obasan. “If you gather enough fresh snow, I can make tea while the room fills with the lovely perfume of the wood.”
“Will you girls help me?” asks the professor. “It will take lots of snow, even for just a pot of tea. We could play in the snow. I haven’t played in the snow since I was a boy. We could dig tunnels. Make snow monsters. Throw snowballs. Come on, girls.”
“Were you a stubborn boy?” asks Obasan.
The professor laughs. “You know I was. Your cleverness is a gem in the midst of misery. Give me all your buckets. I’ll fill them so you have drinking water and laundry water for today. And I’ll find more charcoal for you, and someone to fix that pipe.”
The professor stays for tea, then for miso soup. Then he sits silent while Obasan does laundry and Karo-chan and I sew. Finally he puts money on the counter—ever generous—and leaves.
Obasan picks up the thick envelope the professor left behind on the floor, and slips it inside her clothes.
Karo-chan and I peek outside. It’s still snowing. “We always wanted to play in the snow,” I say to Karo-chan.
She smiles. “Why not now?”
We put on every bit of clothing we have. Obasan does, too. “Are you really coming with us?” I ask in surprise.
“I was a girl once.” She ties a furoshiki around her head like a scarf. “It is a true crime to pass up rare joys.”
The snow is up to our thighs. We play in the glorious and brilliant white until we’re so cold that we can barely move. By this time the snow is as high as Karo-chan’s bottom. People on the street exclaim, “Tokyo has never had such a snow!”
“I have a treat for dinner,” says Obasan once we’re inside. She boils kidney beans over the camphor-wood fire. “I was saving the beans for Simo-chan’s thirteenth birthday in four days. But today has been good. Today is to celebrate.”
We eat, then go to sleep exhausted and happy, truly happy.
That night, sirens wake us, and the roar of airplanes fills the sky. Bombs drop with deafening thuds. We run to our bokugo, squat, and curl over our knees, cold and helpless. I can’t guess how many planes or explosions.
The sky is ablaze, and parts of buildings fly up with shafts of flame under them. I hear crackling as the heart of Tokyo burns, and I rock back and forth, my arms circled around Karo-chan from behind, my head buried in the back of her neck.
No. No. No.
9 MARCH 1945, TOKYO, JAPAN
I jolt awake in the night. “The air-raid sirens.”
“What time is it?” asks Obasan.
I light a candle. “Ten-thirty.”
“Let’s wait. I’ll make…” Obasan goes silent midsentence.
I know she wants to make tea. But even the professor couldn’t get our pipe fixed. We have no water unless we melt snow. We haven’t been able to take in laundry for two weeks. It doesn’t matter, though; no one brings laundry.
Karo-chan and Obasan and I hold hands.
Five days ago, the Americans bombed Tokyo again. If they do it tonight, that will be three times in two weeks.
A wind’s been blowing since noon. Telegraph wires dance like crazy things, and boxes and trash go flying by under an overcast sky. If they bomb us, maybe this harsh wind will put out the flames. Or maybe snow will put out the flames. We had another heavy snowfall three days ago. Firefighters in their black judo-like robes tramp through the streets often now, and tell us this snow is our friend, this bitter cold is our friend. They say that if a bomb hits, we should break whatever ice we see, chop at it with axes, and throw the broken pieces onto the fire. That will put out the flames. They warn us not to wear rubber-soled shoes, because they’ll melt if a firebomb hits our street.
But won’t our wooden shoes catch fire?
The sirens stop. Obasan pats my hand. I blow out the candle, and lie staring up into the black air for a long time. Waiting.
* * *
—
The sound of planes—inevitable. I wake Obasan and Karo-chan. We go out the door, and Karo-chan and I look up. A plane roars, then another, then more. They come one by one. We stand in the doorway and listen and watch. Each plane’s lights show the target below for the next plane. The approach begins as a raspy whisper. Then there’s a high-pitched whine, then the roar. On and on. A never-ending line of planes.
But we don’t run.
There are so many bombs, the air is hot. The snow melts around us, and I scoop water from the ground and throw it onto us to cool us. In minutes, our clothes are dry again.
Flames leap from place to place, carried by the winds. Those harsh winds are disastrous! People run through the streets, and I see the terror on their faces because the flames are bright as daylight. A boy pulls a handcart by the handles in front, and his mother and sister push from behind. The cart is loaded with tatami mats and pots and pans. A bicycle rolls past, the front basket piled high with bowls. A woman runs with part of a futon tied around her. A boy in a helmet races past; pairs and pairs of wooden shoes hang from a rope at his waist. Has everyone lost their minds?
“What’s happening?” calls Obasan to the passing crowd.
“Run, old lady,” says an old man. “Avoid the bridges. They’ll collapse. Go to the railway lines. Run along the tracks. Run!”
Obasan grabs my arm. “Where are the fires, Simo-chan?”
“Everywhere,” the old man yells.
“So which way do we run?” cries Obasan.
The planes are still coming. Whisper, whine, roar.
“Let’s head for water,” says Karo-chan.
We link elbows and push through the crowds. Sparks rain down on our heads; we swat as if they’re bees. We pass people in many open bokugo pits, curled over in hope, and people lying flat on the ground close to walls, facedown. We run with the wind behind, pushing us.
“There you are!” Naoki-kun sprints up. “I was scared when you weren’t at home.”
He and I hold on to Obasan and Karo-chan as we run. I think of Kaede and Masaki, our geckos. If our house burns, what will become of them? At least Lella is safe, tied to Karo-chan’s chest, inside her clothes. What stupid thoughts. Like everyone else, I’ve lost my mind.
Obasan falls. Naoki-kun lifts her from one side, and another boy appears and lifts her from the other. He’s wearing an air-raid hood and a khaki civilian uniform. The night sky is so bright from the flames that I see the red eagle insignia of the Great Japan Youth Association on his breast pocket. A stab of fear. What if he knows Naoki-kun draws rakugaki? Boys like him turn in boys like Naoki-kun. But nothing like that matters now.
We run.
Above us the planes seem slow, gliding through black smoke. They could be big lazy birds. Don’t they feel the heat? The air is on fire.
A woman rushes at us screaming. I see the flames behind us reflected in her glasses. And I realize: Karo-chan and I don’t have our gauze sashes over our eyes. “Which way?” she screams. “Which way?”
“Come with us,” I say.
But she runs the other way and nearly gets trampled by horses. They charge down the road, panicked eyes, pounding hooves. They’ve escaped from a stable. Good for them! We bunch together as they pass.
A reddish-purple flame hits a telegraph pole. Roofs blaze. The police station ahead is lit up by the flames. A policeman runs up to us. “You’re doing the right thing,” h
e says. His face is black with soot. His eyes are bloodshot. Ours must be, too. The fire has disguised us. He races from person to person, giving encouragement. Many sit, or lie in the street, exhausted. Half have children tied to their backs. Who knows how far they’ve run.
Finally there’s the canal, jammed with people. Others line the banks, chanting Buddhist sutras.
I pull Karo-chan closer and ask, “How will we hold on to each other if we’re swimming?”
“I can’t swim,” says Naoki-kun.
I remember—the boy who wanted to join the navy but can’t swim.
“Don’t do it,” says a woman beside us. She’s sopping wet. Her face looks haunted. “The water is hot. It’s getting hotter.”
“Crawl,” says our Great Japan Youth. “This way.”
We crawl into a bokugo. Nothing covers us. Nothing protects us.
No more roar of planes, but fire truck sirens wail as fire crackles, buildings crash, and people scream.
I look at Obasan. “Your knee’s bleeding.”
Our Great Japan Youth reaches inside his uniform and pulls out a first-aid kit. He hands it to me. “You take care of her now.” He leaves, and it feels like he was a dream.
I clean Obasan’s knee and tape on a bandage.
The sky slowly turns light with morning. My throat is raw, my eyes burn, and I have no energy. But we are alive. I stand up and look out at the people racing this way and that. All of them are alive. For now, that’s everything.
25 MARCH 1945, TOKYO, JAPAN
I open my eyes to see Karo-chan asleep beside me. Naoki-kun sleeps beyond her. After the bombing two weeks ago, Obasan insisted that he sleep here from now on. I look across to her spot.
She’s gone. And something’s wrong. The radio’s not on. Obasan has the radio on every waking moment. Nothing else in Tokyo works anymore, but the radio keeps going.
I sit up, and the stench hits me. In the first few days after the firebombing, it was ash; winds blew and ash coated our nostrils. But most ruins have stopped smoldering. Now it’s the smell of death. Every available adult is supposed to spend all day digging trenches for burial.
Blindness exempts us. Karo-chan and I stand in the ration line with others who are exempt—half-naked children and wounded adults. The women’s fingers worry the frayed handles of their baskets as they mutter to themselves, but we use our fingers to pinch our noses against the stench.
I get up now and go into the front room.
Obasan sits there. “Another evacuation had been declared. All schoolchildren must leave Tokyo.”
“I know,” I say. The radio announced that after the firebombing. “Why isn’t the radio on?”
“It stopped working.” Obasan stands. As if that movement brings her to life, she hurries around, full of energy. She’s already got all her clothes layered on her. But now she reaches into cupboards and fills a small bundle. “I’m going to Sapporo.”
My heart stops. “Sapporo?”
“It’s in Hokkaido. Where my brother lives. The poet.”
I know exactly where it is—far, far north.
Karo-chan comes to stand beside me, and Naoki-kun appears on my other side.
“You’re going?” says Karo-chan. “Only you?”
I pull Karo-chan in front of me and close my arms around her.
Obasan’s still tucking small things into her bundle. “My dearest children. I’m sorry, so sorry. I tried to find a way….But how can I buy you train tickets? You don’t have documents.” She pats her chest. “And the trains are horrible now. They stop all the time, and they’re crowded. A long trip like that will be hideous and take forever.”
“I thought only bomb victims could buy train tickets now,” I say. “And the military.”
Obasan clutches her bundle. “I got an official letter saying I’m a bomb victim.” Her mouth twitches; her face is ashen. “But the official letter says nothing about you. I asked the authorities; I gave you my last name. But they had me listed as the mother of sons, and because I couldn’t supply birth certificates, they said no. The only way to get tickets for you is to buy them from a thief.”
“Buy them from a thief, then,” says Karo-chan.
“I tried! My brother told the professor to give me plenty of money—so I tried. But thieves don’t have enough tickets. And ticket lines are full of people trying to bribe their way on. Some wait in line for two days. People cut ahead, and then there are fights.” Obasan is breathing hard. “But, oh, my dearest children, it’s better this way. Girls traveling with a blind woman wouldn’t be safe on a train. Little mobs steal your ticket and sometimes everything you have, and if you dare to fight back, you’re left bleeding on the ground. When the trains stop, people have to crawl in and out through windows. Dangerous.”
I try to think.
“People have all their belongings with them”—Obasan pats her chest fast—“so they bash everyone else with their luggage. And it’s colder up in Sapporo. Travel will be painful.” She drops her hand from her chest. “So I made a decision: you’re not coming with me, though my heart squeezes so hard it shatters.”
Karo-chan rushes to hug her. Obasan’s arms close around her.
I want Obasan’s arms around me, too. But I stay put, my mind racing now. Obasan didn’t say the most important reasons for not bringing us. If we traveled with her and people saw that we were Westerners, who knows what a mob might do? Even if we made it to Sapporo, her brother could turn us over to the authorities. She said that he blames everyone who isn’t Japanese for the war.
Obasan saved us for a whole year. She can’t save us anymore.
“You are smart,” says Obasan, petting Karo-chan’s head. “You can handle things for the moment. And, Naoki…”
“Yes, Tanaka-san?” says Naoki-kun.
“Are your hands stained with ink?” She always knows.
“Not anymore.”
“My jars are gone,” says Obasan. “But there are no buildings left to scribble on anyway.”
“I tried,” says Naoki-kun. “I failed to convince anyone.”
“You can’t know that. And you didn’t get caught. That’s success. You are smart, too. Like Simo-chan and Karo-chan. The three of you, stay together, take care of each other until the professor gets here.”
Karo-chan jumps back. “The professor?”
“I sent him a message. I had the neighbor write it for me, though I hoped something would change and I could take you with me after all. He sent a message back. He will take you to Karuizawa with him.”
Weeping, we kiss Obasan goodbye. Her hands shake. Her rheumy eyes water. Her voice is faint. My own voice won’t come.
She puts an envelope into my hand. “You have your own saved money. But now it’s three of you. This will help. The professor knows I leave today, but if anything should happen to him, if he gets detained, find a way to buy train tickets and go north and inland, to Saitama. The Urawa prison camp is there, with American prisoners. So the Americans won’t bomb it. Maybe the prison will take you in.”
“Thank you.” I clutch the envelope. “Thank you. We…” I can’t speak.
“It’s Sunday. The professor should come today. I never told him you are Westerners. I couldn’t ask the neighbor to write that. He will be surprised. But you are children; he worries about children; he will not betray you.”
The professor won’t come. He didn’t come last week; we haven’t seen him since the great firebombing. But Obasan can believe what she needs to believe.
We embrace Obasan, then watch her walk down the road.
“Obasan is alone,” says Karo-chan.
“She’ll be all right. We have to go now, too.”
“No.”
Obasan disappears past neighbors who stand outside their homes trying to sell their grills and bamboo baskets
, ceramics and pots. Anyone who can is leaving, but they take only what they can carry.
“Simo-chan’s right. We must go,” says Naoki. “Do what she says.”
“The professor is coming,” says Karo-chan.
“Karo-chan,” I say, “Obasan loves us, but she can’t find a way to help us now. The professor doesn’t love us. Even if he comes today, how can you think he’ll be able to help us? Go put on every bit of clothing you have.”
“No! This time we stay.”
I won’t look at her—I won’t let my face give away my fear. I layer on all my clothes and search the house as though I know what I’m looking for. Every shelf, every cupboard. There’s nothing that might help us, not even matches. I take the money from our box and add it to the envelope. This envelope is the only thing we have. If anyone sees it, the money will soon be gone. Should I divide it among us for safety? But I’m the one who will be most careful with it, so I stuff it inside my clothes as Karo-Chan and Naoki-kun watch.
I gather Karo-chan’s clothes on the floor in front of her. “Put them on.”
She doesn’t move.
I close my eyes and hold my face in my hands. Then I hold my hands in front of her face. “What do you smell?”
Karo-chan blinks. “Maybe a little soy.”
I pull her hand to my face and sniff. “You, too. We could be anyone, any girl of Tokyo. But we aren’t. I don’t know who we are anymore, but everyone who sees us knows who we aren’t.” I lock eyes with Karo-chan. “We’ll go to Saitama. To the prison camp.”
“Americans. I hate Americans.”
“We have to leave. Tokyo is being destroyed.”
“Let’s go find Papà.”
“The prison guards will kill you,” says Naoki-kun. “Besides, you don’t know if your father’s…”
“Enough!” I say. “We’ll manage on our own. The three of us. But not in Tokyo.”
“We can’t manage on our own,” says Karo-chan.
“Yes, we can.” But Karo-chan sounds right. Staying alive is a game of wits. People often tell me that I’m clever, but right now I feel stupid.
In a Flash Page 23
