The Blossom and the Firefly

by Sherri L. Smith

  CHAPTER 9

  TARO

  Spring 1938

  “Taro! Come say goodbye to your father!”

  Taro finished buttoning his shirt and ran to the door. His parents were already outside.

  It was a bright May morning. Irises were just beginning to bloom at the edge of the yard. Their purple softened everything. Father looked handsome in his uniform—a drab khaki tunic with bright brass buttons, jodhpur pants wrapped ankle to knee with leather straps Father called puttees, golden epaulets, and sky-blue collar patches that indicated the Army Air Force. He made Taro want to stand straighter.

  Taro slipped on his shoes to join his mother in the yard. Together, they clasped their hands to their sides and bowed from the waist. Taro bowed so low he could feel his cheeks hanging off his bones like heavy laundry wet from the wash. He swallowed, afraid of drooling onto the cobblestones. A rustle of cloth, and his mother was rising. He followed a split second later.

  Four months earlier, the military had initiated a national mobilization law. Men and women were being called into service as soldiers, factory workers, field hands. And his father was going off to war.

  “The Emperor needs aeroplanes,” his father had explained the night he came home with the news. “And he needs men who understand them.” Taro’s father was an aeronautical engineer. When Taro was young, Father would bring home model planes for him to play with. Later, the two of them built models together—perfect replicas of the planes his father designed during the day. But now Father was tasked with running air fleet maintenance on the mainland. Those days of make-believe were gone.

  Father’s eyes were bright, his bow shallow so that he could look into their eyes as he said farewell.

  To his wife he said, “Look for me in the morning. I shall fly low overhead on my way to the mainland.”

  Taro’s mother bowed again to hide her tears.

  “Take care of the house, Taro. And your mother.”

  “Fly well, Father,” Taro replied. “You will surely have success in Manchukuo!”

  It was exciting, like Momotaro going to fight the demons. He smiled, but his father did not return it. Taro rearranged his expression, but his father was already looking at his watch.

  “Well, I must be off.” He turned on the heel of his brown leather shoe and stalked away up the street, toward the train station that would send him to his air base and off to the war.

  In a flurry of pink and white, Taro’s mother opened her parasol. She jogged up the street on her geta—clip-clop, clip-clop—until she was three feet behind his father, where she slowed to a proper pace. Taro hurried to catch up, and together they followed him to the station. The neighbors fell in as they went—Mrs. Tanaka, and Mr. Oba, the head of the block association. A group of Taro’s classmates tagged along, waving flags.

  The war in China had ebbed and flowed for as long as Taro could remember. But lately, Father had become a different man. No more kamishibai and candy. No more smiling. And now he was leaving. Taro stifled a sigh and followed the procession to the train station, not liking the way he suddenly felt. As if he could play “Haru no Umi” now the way Ayugai-sensei wanted him to, with a sense of sadness in beauty.

  Watching his father board the train, he decided he would play when his father flew overhead the next day. He would stand in the yard and play with all his might.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, a silver plane flew low over the rooftops. Taro stared into the sky, violin tucked beneath his chin, and played his farewell. Soaring into that dizzying blue, for a moment, he was unsure if he was the music or if he was the aeroplane itself. Then the wings waggled, and beside him, his mother waved and waved.

  In that brief moment, he attained mono no aware. The fading nature of beauty, the passing of delight.

  CHAPTER 10

  HANA

  When I was little, my mother tried to teach me how to sew. I did not have the fingers for it. They were too soft and tender. Every time I made a stitch, I pricked my skin. My blood would stain the cloth, and I would cry and cry, partly from the pain and partly from the trouble I had caused. It would take a day of soaking and scrubbing to clean up my mistakes.

  Today, I am mending uniforms with Mariko. We are sitting on a rock behind the barracks at the edge of the trees for more sunlight. When we are finished here, we will go deeper into the woods and cut tree boughs to cover the barracks roof. This way, planes passing overhead will only see more forest and drop their bombs elsewhere. There are eighteen of us girls again today. Plenty of help. But for now, it’s just me and Mariko, sitting quietly in the shade.

  I stab myself with the needle, but my callused fingers do not bleed. I don’t wince. It has been like this since the day I died.

  “I hope we have some fish with dinner at home tonight,” Mariko says. “Omaru-san was saying just this morning how he misses all of the fish he and his brothers used to catch from the mountain stream where he lives.”

  “Has he tried Tomihara-san? I bet she has a rod he could use in the river. She has a way of finding treats for her favorites,” I say.

  “They are all her favorites,” Mariko says, and smiles. “Do you know they call her Mama-chan? I asked Reiko if it makes her jealous, but she just smiled. I think Reiko is a favorite of all the pilots, too. They give her little gifts, so it’s only right that her mother treats them so well.”

  “It’s the other way around, Mariko,” I say. “They are kind to Reiko because she is like a little sister to them.”

  Mariko sighs. “To think, if this war was not on, we would be going to dances and parties with these same boys. We could wear dresses instead of monpé. Our cheeks would be pink and fat, and the boys would call us pretty instead of ‘the future mothers of Japan,’” she says, dropping her voice to mimic a man’s. “Ugh! There is nothing worse than being called a mother by a cute boy, especially when they are all older than us! It makes me feel ancient.” She sighs and picks up the thread for a new sock. “This war is making us all so skinny and old! Feel my hair. It used to be glossy. Now it’s short and brittle. I don’t dare try to brush it too much for fear it will break off. Even lice wouldn’t live in it now!”

  “You’re exaggerating,” I say. “Don’t let old Hirano-san frighten you.”

  I am sewing a button onto a shirt. The rock that makes my seat is cold, the damp seeping into my monpé. Thick clouds drift across the sun. It is a hot/cold day, sunny one moment, gloomy the next. I understand how the weather feels. Next, I will mend the pocket on a pair of pants and lower the hem. These boys are still growing. Their uniforms cannot keep up.

  “I am not!” Mariko drops the sock in her lap and grabs my hand. “Feel this! Like straw! I wish I could have some ocean fish. My mother says the oils in deep sea fish are good for our hair and skin. It seems silly to me that all of our young men are willing to die for us, but we are getting uglier by the instant! When we cut branches later, let’s look for berries in the woods. Maybe we can find something to stain our lips and cheeks. I feel so dull all of the time!”

  I nod and knot the thread, biting the tail off with my teeth. I fold the shirt carefully into the basket of repaired clothes and drag the pants out of the mending basket. “Pass the thread,” I say.

  “You’re not listening. But why should you? You’ve never been vain about your looks. But I have to be, Hana! I’m not talented and clever like you. You can sing and dance—boys always like good dancers. Or you can take over your father’s tailoring business. But me? I will marry a farmer, most likely.”

  “I thought you had decided to find a career,” I reply.

  “Be serious, Hana! Even with a job, there still will be fewer men to choose from and all these pretty women! I have to look my best so I can be picky. I don’t want to marry a dolt.”

  It’s been a long time since my family performed at the fe
stival, Otō-san on koto, me and Okā-san singing and dancing. Playing the koto myself when I was old enough to do so without getting tangled up in the strings. We were like songbirds back then, Otō-san, Okā-san, and me. Now we are a broken set. Mariko knows I haven’t danced or played koto since Otō-san went away. And though I mouth the words, she knows I no longer sing. Like her hair, I, too, have lost my sheen.

  I sew a straight line across the edge of the pocket, doubling back to make sure it’s secure. “How can you even think about marriage, Mariko? Will we even live long enough to get married?”

  Mariko’s eyes fly wide. “What? Of course we will! With such magnificent men fighting for us, why shouldn’t we?”

  “There is little enough fish, Mariko,” I say softly. “There is less rice. We both know the tonari-gumi meetings are more bravado than a sign of plenty. And you see the boys here. Younger and younger. We used to have grown men, real pilots. Now we have boys who dream of being pilots one day. And the aeroplanes are terrible. Two more boys had to force a landing yesterday because their engines failed.”

  Perhaps it is cruel to say this. I know to keep such thoughts to myself. Perhaps kindness is another thing I’ve left behind. Or hope.

  Mariko is silent for a long time. Her needle is not moving. The wind lifts our hair, carrying the scent of dry pine needles.

  “Well . . . I don’t want to marry a dolt. But if I have to, I want to do it well. You should want the same. We are the future mothers—”

  “Of Japan!” we say together. I press my lips into a smile. Mariko giggles. It turns into a snort. And more laughter.

  “Oh, Hana,” she gasps, “this is Jiro-san’s small clothes! I don’t want to sew underwear!” She hands me the torn underpants. “Here, you won’t blush like I will.”

  “You wanted pink cheeks,” I remind her, and drop the underwear on her head.

  She is still shrieking when the pilots arrive. A new group. We do not know them. We swallow our embarrassment, stuff the clothes into whichever basket is closest, and bow our heads.

  “These are your Nadeshiko Tai girls. They’ll mend your clothes, do your laundry, and bring your meals until your day of victory,” Lieutenant Maeda instructs the boys. Maeda is not a bad sort. He has worked at the base in Chiran since before the war, so he is familiar to us all. Still, I keep my eyes on their shoes. We will shine them, too, and they need it. The dust of the fields has turned them a dusky brown. A fat beetle makes its way across the spring grass, stumbling over the rise and fall of the land. I watch it disappear into the weeds. I disappear, too, until the boys are gone.

  Soon, we will learn their names.

  And then we will wave goodbye.

  CHAPTER 11

  TARO

  Summer 1940

  Taro was a butterfly skimming the tops of flowers. He was an eagle diving from great heights. A mighty warrior, storming into battle. He hit a sour note, grimaced. Adjusted his position on the smooth black chin rest, took a deep breath, and reset the bow at the beginning.

  He was playing Mozart.

  He stood at the open window of the family room hoping some little kid would hear him and want to play too, as he had so long ago. Except for when he made mistakes. Then he stayed by the window because he didn’t want to hear the conversation going on in the next room. The walls were thin, and his father was home on leave from the war.

  “Doesn’t he know any Japanese songs?” he heard his father ask. Taro flushed. Sensei had said Western music was no longer in favor with the Emperor, nor Western sports, clothing, ideas. But didn’t Mozart transcend nations? Not the way he was playing it, perhaps. He redoubled his efforts.

  “You forget,” his mother said. “Mozart was said to be German.”

  Taro smiled. Germany was allied with Japan. But he could hear his father’s noncommittal grunt.

  “He is working very hard,” his mother said. “We can be proud of that.”

  Taro closed his eyes and played. Careful to avoid the same mistakes.

  “And I am not saying he should stop. But music school! What kind of living can a musician make? He should be an engineer, or an officer. Half the world is at war! With France fallen to the Germans, Indochina is ripe for the taking. The country needs men who contribute to the real world.”

  Taro squeezed his eyes tighter, drawing the bow back and forth, pausing to pluck the pizzicato notes, sawing deeply into the darker tones. He was a submariner, diving beneath the waves. This was the real world, shadowy, deep, and blue.

  “Pilots. Now, there’s an opportunity! A boy who goes to Army Youth Pilot School and applies himself will have his choice of assignments in the Imperial Military Academy.”

  “You would have two soldiers in this house.”

  Taro’s mother said it so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her, but this was the soft moment, pianissimo. She was pianissimo, too. She had not questioned, merely stated. But it was enough for his father to hesitate. Then, piano, soft but not as softly as his mother, his father said, “When he is old enough . . . The Emperor needs men, not music.”

  And Taro’s heart sank deep into his stomach, farther than the submariner in the depths. He would become a soldier, an officer, a pilot. There was glory in it—the broad skies over the mountains, the oceans, everything in one clean glance, like a concerto, a symphony. Something bubbled, crackling inside of him. He didn’t know if it was excitement or fear, disappointment or joy. But it leaked over into his music. The violin skipped, jumping like a startled horse.

  Taro grimaced.

  Took a deep breath.

  And started again.

  Shōnen Hikōhei. Youth Pilot School. To enter meant giving fifteen years of his life to the army. Fifteen! That was three more years than he’d been alive. Of course, the boys at his grade school would be jealous. Not everyone loved Mozart, but they all wanted to fly. The biggest heroes of the war in China were pilots—daredevils like Kashimura Kanichi, who once landed his plane with only one wing.

  No one ever called a musician a hero.

  Taro leaned into the music, trying to focus on the piece. He could be a pilot. He would do well in school and make his parents proud.

  But he would never stop playing the violin.

  Out in the street, he heard a clatter. Someone was outside listening. He wouldn’t stop to look, nor let it distract him. Instead, he poured himself into the music, hoping the listener would understand.

  CHAPTER 12

  HANA

  Laundry. Always laundry, hanging in the wind to dry. Mariko, the others, and I gathered the clothing from the lines first thing today. We’ve had no new boys since yesterday afternoon, but the staff is always busy. So now, with our arms still aching from hauling and tugging and tucking this morning’s bedsheets, Mariko and I sit in one of the base offices, sewing and patching staff uniforms, pretending not to listen when news comes in on the wire next door.

  “Do you remember Hakata-san and how his toes had teeth?” Mariko asks me. She holds up an olive green sock, bald at the heel, the ball of the foot missing completely. “Corporal Sanyo’s entire foot is a mouth. He must eat dirt and rocks to chew a sock so badly!”

  I smile, but it fades as I remember nervous little Hakata-san. Some of the Nadeshiko tried to give him courage in his final days. They spoke of cherry blossoms and sunrise, the temple where he played as a child, and the dark forces coming to wipe it all away. And he, bright as the sun, was the only one to stop it. They’d painted him a hero, and he became one, for a few shining moments, when he bowed to us and mounted the wing to his plane.

  His toes had teeth.

  His plane did, too.

  Hakata-san body-crashed gloriously into an American ship.

  At least, we think he did. There were many enemy fighters in the air. The escort planes did not stay long enough to confirm his end. But a ship went down the day he fle
w out, so we consider it our elder brother’s work. His and his comrades.

  “Don’t look now,” I say to Mariko, and hold up a pair of underwear. “Sergeant Ito has teeth somewhere else!”

  That is when the radio crackles: a flotilla of American ships has been spotted heading north toward Okinawa. With them they bring fighter planes and bombers, fire, blood, and death ever closer to home. Through the wall we hear the men exclaim, “At once!” and orders are given down the line.

  Mariko and I stop our stitching, eyes only on each other, waiting, trembling on the branch of uncertainty.

  “There you are!” The commandant turns the corner, startling us. “Eavesdropping, no doubt.” We lower our eyes rather than deny it, and bow our heads in deference.

  “Just as well,” he says. Commandant Asama is a bulldog. He rumbles and growls deep in his chest, and it raises the hairs on the backs of our necks. But it takes a strong man to run an army base. It takes a bulldog to run a war. “Tell the other girls to get ready. We have a new flight coming this afternoon. A big action in the works.”

  My cheeks are suddenly damp. I don’t dare look up. I am a ghost. It is better to be a ghost. From the corner of my eye, I see a tear drop onto Mariko’s half-mended sock.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Get going!”

  “Yes, Sensei!” We leap to our feet, tossing our mending back into the basket. The staff men will understand. Pilots always take precedence.

  The other girls are dragging new branches onto the roofs of the barracks when we arrive out of breath. Half the group drag the dried-out boughs to the woodpile. The rest wipe sweat from their foreheads, surveying their handiwork. They look proud, for the moment. Capable and strong.