The Blossom and the Firefly

by Sherri L. Smith

  * * *

  —

  “Ah!” Taro scooted back in his bunk. Nakamura’s face loomed overhead. “What are you doing?”

  “Are you ready?” Nakamura whispered in his indoor voice.

  “What time is it? Did I miss roll call?”

  “Nope. It’s”—Nakamura grabbed Taro’s wrist—“four a.m., according to your fine timepiece.” The watch had been a surprise gift from Taro’s father, delivered by army packet to Tachiarai shortly after Taro arrived.

  “Why are we awake?”

  “It’s first flight day, son! Step one in becoming an Eagle of the Eastern skies!”

  Taro’s head felt like a sandbag. He yawned, making his ears pop. “Sounds like a movie.”

  “Yep! The one they’ll make about us, just as soon as you put on some pants.” Nakamura’s indoor whisper was getting louder. The other trainees were beginning to stir.

  “You’re not going to let me go back to sleep, are you?”

  “Nope. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of ocha before reveille.”

  * * *

  —

  Taro was going to be sick. The tea had been a bad idea, and tea had never been a bad idea. So he had to admit it was nerves, not the ocha, churning his stomach while he waited for his chance to fly.

  He and the other trainees stood on the flight line at the edge of the runway, a green field stretching out behind them. Nakamura had already taken off, swaddled in the front seat of an old biplane, while a senior pilot took the helm from the back seat. So far, three of the boys had thrown up, and that was just as passengers.

  “Kannon, please let me make my father proud,” the boy next to him muttered, a prayer to the goddess of mercy. Taro’s hands grew clammy, and a sheen of sweat sprang out on his top lip. His father was a pilot, an aeronautical engineer, no less. What would he say if his son lost his lunch on the first day of flying? Yes, he’d flown before, but that had been years ago. This would be his first flight without the safety of his mother’s lap. The thought of flying that way now made him smile.

  “Inoguchi, next!” the instructor called out.

  “Hai!” Taro approached the idling plane, careful to avoid the propeller, and hauled himself up into the open cockpit. The Ki-17 was a biplane—with double-decker wings and room for two fliers seated one behind the other. Once Taro was seated, the instructor pilot shouted at him to attach his earpiece to the speaking tube.

  “Hai!” he said into the funneled mouth of the tube by his side. He buckled into the harness, pausing to attach the emergency release to his parachute.

  “Watch your feet!” the pilot said through the speaking tube. “Don’t touch anything. Feet off the pedals. I’m in control here, got it?”

  “Hai!”

  “Parachute attached? Buckled in?”

  “Hai!” Taro shouted to each question. And then the plane was rolling.

  He listened to the basso rumble of the plane, the increasing tempo of the wheels along the runway, ta-lok, ta-lak, ta-lok. It reminded him of something. The percussion, the bass. Boléro by Ravel. The music swelled inside him, pulling him along on a caravan of sound until the drums dropped into silence and they were in flight. Oboe and clarinet called like songbirds. The world fell away from his feet, and he was swallowed in blue.

  Taro wanted to spread his arms out to his sides, above the walls of the narrow cockpit. He wanted to open his mouth and bellow along with the engine, the wind, the rush of noise.

  It wouldn’t do to keep this foolish smile on his face once they landed. He could imagine his father’s disapproval.

  This was serious business, he told himself.

  But the smile remained.

  “I told you,” Nakamura said that night as the newly christened pilots toasted each other with shōchū from Lieutenant Saito’s private stock. “We were born to fly!”

  CHAPTER 20

  HANA

  The house is quiet when I return this afternoon. My mother is in the other room, sewing in the fading April sun. We make the most of sunlight these days. From the doorway, I can hear the bubble of the pot on the stove. Okayu again, but the rice porridge is thin. Tonight I have something to add to it, though. I slip off my shoes in the entryway and pad across the tatami mats into the kitchen.

  “Okā-san, I am home.” I bow to her and pull a sweet potato from my waistband. “Look, a treat for us!”

  My mother looks up from her sewing and smiles, even though her lips are pursed around the dull backs of three pins. She marks her place, pulls the pins from her lips, and says, “Ah, a satsumaimo! Did you work the farm today? It must have been a good harvest to send you home with such a big potato!”

  “Hai.” The lie comes easily to my lips. I bow and put the potato in the coals to warm.

  We have only served at the base for three short weeks. But the repetition of our work makes the time seem longer. It’s chop wood, carry water again and again, as my father would say, though his work was measure and cut, cut and sew. Sometimes it’s necessary to live this way, one step at a time. But if my mother knew we girls were spending every day with tokkō pilots, she would worry. My father’s enlistment was bad enough. And since the cave-in, she worries all the time.

  In truth, the airfield is a more likely target for bombs and fighter planes. And the soldiers are rambunctious sometimes—rumors have flown about their carousing at the restaurant next door. The Kempeitai military police were even sent to investigate, but Tomihara-san runs a clean shop. It’s the government that runs brothels of comfort girls, not Tomihara-san. But my mother has a patriotic heart. She would want me to continue to be a good citizen, especially for such fine young men. At least that’s what I tell myself when I feel the guilt of omission.

  I stoop by the fire, moving the pot off the center of the heat.

  “Go change your clothes,” Okā-san says. “I’ll stir the pot.”

  I nod, grateful to get out of my monpé and into a clean yukata. I am tying the belt across my waist when a voice calls out from the street. There is a man at the door. I pause in the hallway, hidden by the sliding screen, while my mother greets the visitor.

  “Ah, yes! I know these kimono. A good weave, very fine fabrics. Certainly, we will do all we can. Yes, careful stitches, no unnecessary cuts, nothing taken away. She will be able to adjust them again if needed. Certainly. Five days, no more. Many thanks to you.”

  I have been holding my breath, not realizing it. I breathe now. The mineral scent of damp pavement. A brief shower chased me home. Not enough to delay tomorrow’s flight. But now there is freshness that has been lacking in the stale back rooms. I slide the shōji screens open onto the back garden, hoping to direct the breeze throughout the house. The days are getting longer. Above the trees, the sky is still light.

  “Ah, yes, a breeze. Just what’s needed,” my mother says in her usual shop chatter. She talks to herself, even when I am here. And she talks to my absent father when she thinks no one is listening. Now she steps over the coat she has been sewing, her arms full of a beautiful rust-and-salmon kimono.

  “Look at this, Hana. Do you know what this is?”

  I follow her to the window, where we admire the rich fabric in the fading light. I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the fineness of the crepe. “Kinsha?” I ask, trying to identify the silk by its feel.

  “Not quite. This is chirimen. Look how beautifully it drapes,” she explains, carefully unfolding the bundle.

  “Who brought it in?” I ask. No one in Chiran would wear such a gorgeous kimono. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  Okā-san clucks her tongue. “Who, indeed. A farmer, of all people! This is not his kimono! Or, at least, it wasn’t originally. This belonged to Reiko’s mother. You know, she was a kimono model once, before Reiko and her siblings were born.”

  My eyes gog
gle. “Tomihara-san?” I try to picture her round, motherly face dusted in rice powder, with painted lips and elaborate hair, like in the old magazine photos of the Floating World in Tokyo, where famous actors and musicians flitted in and out of nightclubs and restaurants.

  “You forget, Hana-chan, every woman in this village had a life before she had children! I myself was considered a great beauty in my home mura.”

  Okā-san came to Chiran as a bride seventeen years ago, only two years older than I am today. Back then, it was common for men to visit other villages to find a bride. My father met my mother less than an hour from here while he was on holiday in Ibusuki. The town is famous for hot springs and onsen spas and especially for sand-bathing, where guests are buried in the warm sands heated by the underground springs.

  As Otō-san tells it, he was a modest bachelor looking to save a few pennies. Rather than go to a resort and have the attendants help him in and out of the sand, he dug himself a pit down at the beach and scooped the sand over himself. He fell asleep in the sun and woke only when the returning tide tickled his nose. Fortunately, my mother was passing by with her family. Her face was the first thing he saw above the sand and water. She thought his head was a toy left on the beach. Okā-san and her family rescued my poor father, and he spent all of the money he had saved to buy thank-you gifts for them all.

  Those same beaches are covered in barbed wire and defense trenches now. All in preparation for the American invasion.

  My mother still has the gift of small hair combs Otō-san gave her. Only now her hair is pulled into a sensible bun. She says she will wear them again when the war ends and Otō-san is home.

  The young girl shines in my mother’s face as she smiles. The face that my father fell in love with. I wish I could press that look between the pages of a book and keep it forever. Instead, I return the smile and help her fold the kimono back into a neat bundle.

  “Anyway, if Tomihara-san has sold this beauty to a farmer”—she says the last word with disdain, even though a moment ago she was praising the bounty of our local farms—“it is because of all those pilots she takes under her wings. It must be good for business, having the army choose your restaurant as the official eatery for the base. But she should serve them what she can afford, what the army can pay for, instead of trading her treasures for treats for those men!”

  My face goes warm, and I bow my head, uncertain of a reply. I’ve not heard my mother speak like this before. It is un-Japanese of her to criticize the war effort in any way. Those “men” are dying to protect us. What would she think if she knew how young they were?

  “Ah, but don’t listen to me,” Okā-san says softly. “I am merely sorry to see this beautiful kimono go to some dirty farmer’s wife. And not even as a kimono. ‘Pants,’ he says! All of this gorgeous fabric to make monpé! I will have to use every last scrap to make them bigger, no doubt, to accommodate her girth.”

  I find myself laughing and cover my mouth to suppress it. The kimono has fabric to spare. “Okā-san, the farmer’s wife is no fatter or dirtier than we are. Food is scarce everywhere. Never mind lighting a fire to heat bathwater!” Soaking in the furo once marked the end of each day. Now we save the fuel and soak thrice weekly instead.

  My mother scowls and sighs. “I suppose you’re right. But that satsumaimo has me in a tizzy! It’s only a sweet potato, but look how it makes my mouth water! I hope it’ll be ready soon, Hana. It’s unbecoming to be so empty-headed. It must be hunger. I forgot to eat today.”

  A sourness fills my mouth. She hasn’t forgotten to eat. She’s been saving her rice for the evening meal. I remember the sweet green taste of the spring rice at the base, so delicate, so far from the chalky taste of tonight’s gruel. I will save my bowl tomorrow and share it with Okā-san for dinner. Perhaps I can find something to trade to the kitchen staff for a few pieces of salted plum as well.

  Tonight, when my mother splits the satsumaimo in half, I tell her I’m tired and wrap my portion for her to eat in the morning.

  CHAPTER 21

  TARO

  Summer 1944

  “Momotaro-san, Momotaro-san, where are you going, Momotaro-san?” Nakamura sang as he drummed the side of the bed. Taro jumped up and saluted his friend.

  “I’m going to take my first solo flight!” he belted. Ever since their first day in the air, training had accelerated. It was as if their superior officers had looked at the calendar and realized how much they had to teach in less than a year. Today, Taro would prove he had what it took to be a real pilot . . . or he would wash out and be sent to work as ground crew or, worse, a flight navigator for someone else.

  But he wouldn’t let that happen. Like Nakamura kept saying—he was born to fly.

  “Good for you,” Nakamura crowed. “But I’ve just done it!”

  Taro scowled. “How do you keep getting in front of me? Nakamura comes after Inoguchi!”

  “Yes, but Kenji comes before Taro,” Nakamura says.

  “The Western name order!” Taro realized, rubbing his forehead in memory of the day they met. Nakamura grinned.

  “Yep. The CO has our names backward. Must be clerical error. You haven’t noticed by now?”

  Taro deflated into laughter. “And where was I while you were soloing? I would have cheered you on.”

  Nakamura shrugged. “Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to be my official solo, but Saito and I got to drinking last night, and I convinced him to let me have a practice run. I went this morning, and he said it was good enough to count. If they weren’t so tight on the gas rations, I’d go again this afternoon. But I figured I should leave enough in the tank for latecomers like you.”

  Taro snagged his towel and swatted at his friend. “Keep laughing, Kenji Nakamura. I’ll get my wings soon enough.”

  “And I’ll cheer you on. When are you up?”

  Taro glanced at his new watch. “Twenty minutes. Walk me to the line?”

  * * *

  —

  The old Ki-17 rattled, idling at the edge of the runway. It felt strange, sitting in the cockpit without the safety net of an instructor behind him, but he was prepared. Taro hummed along with the engine as he finished his preflight checklist. Lieutenant Saito stood to the side of the runway, waiting for a hand signal to send in two other cadets to pull the chocks from his wheels. Taro took a steadying breath and gave the sign. Behind Saito, Nakamura gave him two thumbs up and a ridiculous grin. Taro swore he could see Nakamura’s ears waggling, even with the narrowed vision the aviation goggles provided. He resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. The ground crew cleared the runway, and he pressed the throttle forward.

  Flying was like music. Part math, part art. There were equations to explain everything that was happening, from the bump and rattle of the wheels to the careening scream of the wind in his ears. The way the landscape began to blur. The moment when the stick needed to be pulled back—

  —and how the plane leapt into the sky.

  The Ki-17 rose, sunlight fracturing off the unpainted wings, dazzling him for a moment. The wind wrapped itself around the nose of the aeroplane, lofting the wings into the sky. Warm weather could hold a plane close to the earth in summer, the air too thin to lift it easily. But the cool morning air condensed the sky into a ladder that was easy to climb. Density and gradients, pressure—those were the scientific terms to explain what Taro was doing in the sky.

  And then there was art.

  The sky was a pure bright blue that seemed to deepen as he looked into it. And the roar of the engine mixed with the rattle of his bones until he felt like a purring lion.

  He smiled—he always smiled when he flew. And, even though he could not hear himself over the engine, he began to hum. First the Mozart piece that continually plagued him. Then the songs his mother used to sing. Even Nakamura’s teasing version of “Momotaro.” He sang them all, the thrum in his chest playing
counterpoint to the rumble of the aeroplane, and it seemed to him as if they were two friends, the Peach Boy and the Pheasant, soaring over the land of their birth.

  Taro brought the plane in for a decent landing, a little wobbly at the end, but it put him safely on the ground. His legs were also a bit wobbly as he dismounted from the aeroplane and the ground crew swarmed past to ready the bird for her next flight.

  He presented himself to Saito with a sharp bow and a serious face.

  “Not bad, Inoguchi. Next time, try smiling. You’ve done well,” the first lieutenant said. Taro managed to hide his shock until Nakamura grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him away laughing.

  * * *

  —

  “What’s going on?” Nakamura asked, jogging alongside Taro on their way to the hangar. The summer day was hot and humid. A sheen of sweat had glossed over everything, including Taro. He wiped his forehead as they ran, and shrugged.

  “Who knows?”

  The commandant had called an assembly just after breakfast. Taro had been studying maps in his head over his meal, too focused on his navigation lessons to listen to gossip. They had moved on from their solo flights to aerobatics and then formation flying. Every pilot needed to know how to lead and how to be a good wingman. That meant, among other things, being a good navigator. Soon they would have to show they could do it on their own. It was no wonder he and Nakamura hadn’t heard the scuttlebutt.

  When they arrived in the hangar, the commandant was standing rigidly in front of a map of Japan, his face like a forecast for stormy weather. Nakamura and Taro fell in line with their flight and stood at attention. When the last of the cadets appeared, the commandant nodded and began.

  “We have learned in recent days of two great tragedies!” he announced. “Imperial forces on the island of Saipan”—he slapped a finger against the map, indicating a tiny dot of an island in the Philippine Sea—“fought bravely for nearly a month, but were unable to repel the brute force of the American navy. Although their bodies were weak from hunger, their spirits were very strong. Gyokusai!” He shouted the word. “Every man, woman, and child on Saipan did what all Japanese should do in the face of unavoidable defeat! Let this be a lesson to each of you. Your life belongs to the Emperor. Your honor reflects his greatness. May you all have such strength when the moment arrives!” He paused, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.