The Blossom and the Firefly

by Sherri L. Smith

  “Please excuse me for the interruption! There is news! One of our graduates body-crashed today in a battle against the Americans!”

  “Body-crashed?” Nakamura asked.

  “Yes! He sank a battleship all by himself! Tokkō pilots are the bravest men we have, and this one was trained right here at Tachiarai!”

  Nakamura laughed. “A lot of army pilots are trained here, Cadet. That’s not so special.”

  But Taro didn’t laugh. “Who was he?” he asked. Was it an accident? he wondered. Pilots unable to return to base safely had been known to fly into enemy ships on occasion. It was a terrible choice, but an understandable one if the plane’s damage was great.

  “Endo Kosuke! He graduated earlier this year. He volunteered for one of the new tokkō units. He left as a corporal, but they’re promoting him to sergeant major now!”

  The boy was excited, his cheeks still flushed, his eyes glistening. Endo’s new rank had nothing to do with it—all tokkō received posthumous promotions. No, this was hero worship, Taro realized. The boy was talking about a gunshin, a war-born god.

  “Tokkō,” he breathed. The image of the Ki-79 so proudly displayed in the hangar rose in his mind. Had Endo been there that day? Had he been swept up by the chorus of cheers? Or was it fate that led him down the path of the kamikaze?

  Taro bowed his head. “A moment of silence for our brave brother,” he declared. The rowdy graduates and the beaming cadet sobered immediately. “He was very brave,” Taro added.

  “Hai. Hai!” the boys agreed.

  Not boys, Taro told himself. Men, each of them. Old enough to serve in whatever way they could. Pilots, tokkō, sailors, soldiers, every last Japanese would do his part. In ancient days, even the women could be samurai, and so they would be again in this time of great emergencies.

  The silence stretched, expectant, heavy as a swollen cloud before the storm.

  “I am proud to be Japanese today,” Taro said softly.

  Nakamura straightened, pulling his hat onto his still-damp hair. “And I am proud to be a pilot. Come on, boys. Let’s graduate and end this war.”

  * * *

  —

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  We graduated today with top honors. You will be pleased to know Nakamura Kenji and I have been assigned to the same squadron as part of the 103rd. In a few minutes, we will board the train to Akeno for our advanced fighter training, and then be deployed as the army sees fit. I am sorry Mother was not able to attend today’s ceremony. You would have seen I have added three inches to my height! Not too tall to fly, but it has made me better at basketball and improved my reach in fencing.

  Fortunately, my violin is still a good size for me. I had worried it might get too small to handle. Mother, if you speak to Ayugai-sensei, please let him know that I continue to practice, and that I am now able to bow as he always urged me to, thanks to my growing arms!

  You have heard the news, no doubt, of the losses at Leyte. But today, one of our own graduates sacrificed himself in a true show of Yamato-damashii. It gives us great pride to see the bravery of such pilots. The lost battle does not deter us! Had we but been ready to join the fight sooner, we might have turned the tide. My brother pilots and I know that we serve a greater cause, and we are eager to do our best.

  If I am able, Mother, I will write again when I have my assignment. It is my wish to fly over our house the way Father did so many years ago. I will let you know if I am able. If not, think of me and know that I am thinking of you.

  Your son,

  Taro

  CHAPTER 26

  HANA

  Otō-san’s koto lies covered in a silk cloth to protect the wood from dust. I hang back in the doorway to our second room, not wanting to disturb this space. Not wanting to lay eyes on the butsudan, the incense, the photo of my father treated as an ancestor. He did not know what lay ahead for him when he went to join the war, so he told my mother, “Think of me as already dead.” That way, the pain would not be unexpected should the worst happen, and the joy would be a hundredfold should he return. On that day, his koto would make music once again.

  I have imagined my own photo beside the butsudan since that morning in the sweet potato field. But today, for the first time, it feels as if I might come home. The thought frightens me. It’s so much easier to be dead. To be silent as my father’s koto.

  Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back. It’s just a room. Just a photograph. Just an instrument. Not a snake beneath a cloth, but a dragon.

  I cross the tatami in three swift steps and kneel beside the draped form. The fabric is purple kinsha silk, textured with a wave pattern, gray on the underbelly, soft lilac on top. I lift it from the instrument and fold it carefully. The koto glistens in the light, breathing.

  She stretches before me, almost six feet in length, a gently curving arc of lacquered kiri wood. Thirteen strings, white as snow, made from twined silk, run the length of the dragon’s body from her head to her tail. The strings are tightened by knobs and supported by ivory ji, or bridges. The ji have not moved since my father last tuned her. I lightly touch the tips of my fingers to the ivory, feeling what my father used to feel.

  “Will you play?”

  I jump, snatching my fingers away from the strings. Okā-san is standing in the doorway. Her face is in shadow, and I can’t tell if she is angry, sad, or merely curious.

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .” I press my hands and forehead to the ground. “I’m sorry, Okā-san. I heard music today. Beautiful music . . . and it made me think of Otō-san and how we used to play.”

  With a soft swish of cloth, my mother enters the room and kneels beside me.

  “He would be pleased you are remembering a happier time, Hana. There is no shame in that.”

  I look up, surprised. “But I don’t wish to disturb you, or his things. I only . . . I did not think.”

  Okā-san smiles, but not at me. It is a sad, thoughtful look. She reaches out to the koto as I did, and touches the top of one ji.

  “I sit beside this sometimes and pretend I can hear him playing.” She looks at me, and again I see the girl she once was. “I wish I could play it. I suppose I would, if I could.”

  She says nothing more, but folds her hands in her lap and lowers her eyes. And I can feel it without words. She is asking, and not asking, giving permission, but only if I will take it.

  I look at the koto, no longer a dragon, once again a snake.

  Outside the wind is blowing. There will be no rain tomorrow. No music in the morning.

  “Perhaps . . .” I say, but the moment is past and my mother is rising.

  “The rice is almost ready. I mustn’t let it burn.” And like that, she is gone.

  The moment trembles in her wake. The lilac cloth unfolds with a whisper and settles into place with a sigh.

  I’m sorry, I want to say. I should have played for her.

  But now it’s too late.

  CHAPTER 27

  TARO

  February 1945

  Taro stood at the end of Akeno’s second runway, playing the aeroplanes in on their landings, sending them off on sorties. Far from the Ki-43 he had hoped for, he’d been assigned an ancient Ki-79 that had been grounded by a faulty engine. And so, despite the cold, he took the time to practice, letting the notes float away into the open air. The buzz and grind of propellers, the clunk-chock-clunk of wheels speeding up and lifting abruptly made a strange counterpoint to the flowing violin. Taro squeezed his eyes shut, trying to leave the airfield like the aeroplanes did, climbing the sky on notes instead of wings, letting the sonata bleed across the sky.

  Fighter planes were andante, then accelerando, then allegro. He matched the rising speed, the basso boom as the planes jerked into the air, the rapid vroom as they disappeared into the clouds. If he could play the flight, he
wondered if it counted as air time. As if violin and aeroplane were one and the same. Master the strings, and he’d master the wings.

  He had only been at it for a few minutes when Nakamura came skidding to a stop beside him.

  “Taro! Taro! Put your fiddle away. The captain wants us in the ready room. Something’s up!”

  A trill of excitement burst in Taro’s chest. He tucked the violin into its case and jogged alongside Nakamura. “A mission? Finally! It’s been days!”

  “Days and days, with nothing but bad news,” Nakamura agreed. “But I hear they’ve got something great up their sleeves this time. Did you hear about the Ohka?”

  “Those awful gliders? We’re pilots! They don’t expect us to drop from the sky in those things.” The Ohka was little more than an airborne torpedo, large enough for a bomb and a single pilot. No guns, and little in the way of maneuverability, the Ohka were flown out to sea and dropped from a bomber plane. It was up to the pilot to guide the explosive into the deck of an enemy ship.

  “Those ‘things’ are what will win this war,” Nakamura said with conviction.

  “But they have no weapons,” Taro said.

  “They are the weapon. Just like the Kaiten torpedo boats. The vessel is the bomb!”

  Taro frowned, losing step with Nakamura’s easy gait. “We were taught to fight with bullets and sharp maneuvers.”

  “Then you weren’t listening.” Nakamura grinned back at him. “We were taught to fight with fortitude. Where’s your shining spirit?”

  Taro blinked. They had reached the barracks. He ducked inside and settled his violin case into his cubbyhole. He stretched his back and cracked his fingers in the cool dimness of the bunkroom, Nakamura’s jest nipping at his mind. Where was his shining spirit? The walk to the ready room was slower, weighed down by this question. It was true, their instructors at Oita and Tachiarai had encouraged them to develop their inner strength. The Emperor’s speeches were always geared toward being shining citizens. But Taro’s spirit had been bound long ago by catgut and rosin—earthly elements, not lofty ones.

  The scent of rain washed the air, sending a cold breeze to tickle his collar and lift the ends of his hair. But it could not clear his confusion. Had he betrayed his country by choosing music first?

  Shame burned his cheeks as he entered the ready room. His flightmates were already lined up. Captain Hibara appeared a moment after Taro fell in.

  “Gentlemen! As you have heard, the tide has turned against us of late. We need to make a decisive move against the enemy. Toward that end, we are forming a new attack squadron, and we are looking for volunteers!”

  The room lit up. A murmur of excitement, stiffening backs, broadened shoulders. Taro could feel the entire room bend forward to listen closely.

  “I say volunteers, because this is not your usual duty. If you are an only child, or have a wife, I ask you to consider closely before deciding.

  “This is a tokkō unit we are forming. You all understand tokkō are gunshin warriors, and as such, it is a great honor to make this sacrifice. I need ten men willing to join. Who among you is with me? For, yes, I will be going too. You needn’t decide right away. We will meet again in the morning . . .”

  The captain trailed off, his well-prepared speech forgotten. His eyes, trained at some middle spot between himself and the men he was asking to die, suddenly widened in surprise.

  Taro had stepped forward, without even thinking. And Nakamura beside him. And Hideo, and Tomomichi. Every single pilot in the room had volunteered without hesitation. There was nothing to consider. Taro had known it the moment the question was asked. He was an army pilot, just as his father had insisted all those years ago. At twelve, he’d been prepared to give up fifteen years to military service. Now he would give all of them. Whatever it took to live up to that role.

  Captain Hibara bowed his head, and when he looked up, his face was full of emotion. Pride, Taro realized. And something else. Sorrow?

  As one, Taro and his unit bowed. Today they were no longer just pilots. They were tokkō. The decisive action. The means of ending this war.

  * * *

  —

  Only later, in the barracks, did the true meaning of their commitment sink in. Hideo could be heard sniffling in the corner. Nakamura and Tomomichi were sharing a whispered conversation. Taro himself lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, arms folded beneath his head. He was trying to remember his mother’s face.

  You would have two soldiers in this house, she had said to his father that day long ago. And now Taro himself had betrayed her wishes. But he did not know if it was wrong or right to do so. If Japan lost the war, she would be lost too. The thought of his mother, practicing with sharpened sticks like the schoolgirls in town, promising to take her own life, was nauseating. But the thought of her alone, a gray-haired widow sitting beside the ancestral tablets, adding the names of her husband and son—was it better? He could not say.

  “Taro?”

  Nakamura stood at the foot of his bunk. His face was pale and more serious than Taro had ever seen him.

  “Nak?”

  “The captain mentioned writing our jisei.” Jisei . . . death poems. A Buddhist tradition for those facing their own demise. Taro had read the jisei of famous monks and poets in school. And now . . .

  “We’re pilots, not poets,” he said, attempting a smile. Nakamura cleared his throat.

  “Well . . . some of us want to try.” He ran a hand over his hair and looked away. “Would you play us something on that fiddle of yours? It might help . . . settle the boys.”

  Nakamura. From that first day on the bus to Oita to this, the end of their journey, he had been there at Taro’s side. And he had always hated the violin, Taro realized. But he also knew what it meant to Taro, who was not a poet, but a musician.

  The kindness almost choked him. Without a word, he reached under his bed, pulled out his violin, and began to play.

  * * *

  —

  Later, Nakamura laid a piece of paper on Taro’s blanket. Taro had just put his violin in its case. He looked up in surprise. “A love letter from the girls back home?” Taro asked. The mood had lightened as he played. He smiled at his friend.

  But Nakamura shook his head. “For my mother,” he said.

  Taro stood up and bowed at the waist, taking the jisei in both hands. Nakamura’s calligraphy was surprisingly beautiful, bold black lines on the cream-colored page, in the tanka form, similar to haiku, with two extra lines of seven syllables each.

  See the dragonfly

  His wings cannot go backward

  Is this bravery?

  Now I am a dragonfly

  I will be brave for Japan

  CHAPTER 28

  HANA

  The sun is a pearl in a silvery sky when we arrive at base this morning. The men often depart before sunrise, but not today. Mariko and I clamber down from the back of the truck and take a moment to pinch our cheeks and straighten our blouses, dusting the backsides of our monpé. There will be families here today. We want to look our best so they will know their sons and brothers have been well cared for.

  Sensei leads us in rows down to the airfield. This time, it will be the boys from our barracks flying, so we are in front. Reiko’s mother, Tomihara-san, is there with two other women from the neighborhood association. The boys will have been to see her last night, slipping her their final letters home. Ones the army censors will never see. On the flight line, heads turn and we see new faces. Some families have made the trip to see their sons off. Not every pilot is able to send word of his final flight. Plans change quickly to match the movements of the war. Even then, travel is difficult, especially for civilians. They do not always reach the base in time. But today, a few have succeeded. Mothers in formal kimono, carefully packed and carried a long way, so as to look their best fo
r their sons. Fathers—some in Western suits, most in clean work clothes. A couple hold hampers, the remnants of last meals shared with their children. It looks like a line at a train station, an extended family going on holiday.

  But there have been no holiday outings since I was twelve years old.

  “Oh, Hana, look!” Mariko gasps.

  But it is not the parents Mariko is pointing to with her eyes. It is the lead aeroplane, and the one third in line. Kazuko and Sachiko must have arrived early. Both planes are covered in cherry blossoms. It is as if the earth has given shape to these aeroplanes, showering them in blessings. The pilots who fly these two will surely scatter magnificently across the sky.

  We look at each other with big eyes and break away from the group, rushing up the hillside through the damp grass to gather our own cherry tree branches. We clamber back with a few sad twigs, heavy with dew. I shake mine a few times, but lose more blossoms than water.

  “Hey!” Mariko exclaims, dodging the shower of drops I send her way.

  “Sorry. Do we have time to decorate?” I wonder, but then the boys are lined up, the ceremonial saké cups are drained, the white funeral boxes and scraps of paper with the pilot’s jisei are on the little table. The ground crew is ready, and it is time to wave goodbye. We take our places in the line and bow deeply as the boys from our barracks come forward.

  Nakamura gives a small box of chocolates to Sachiko. “These were sent by my mother. I don’t have the stomach for them now, but perhaps you will,” he tells her.

  Sachiko bows and thanks him, her hair a curtain across her smiling face. She produces a hachimaki and holds it out proudly. “For you, Kenji-san.” She has learned his first name. “I have painted the rising sun with my own blood!” She holds up her pricked fingers, and now I know why she winced yesterday when washing clothes. Beside me, I hear Mariko sigh. Sachiko is always so extreme, and usually we laugh about it. But today it seems as though she is the only one who has made a worthy gift for our elder brothers.