There was a scuffle at the entrance. A young pilot, younger-looking than any Taro had ever seen, bowed in the doorway. “Excuse the interruption. We hear you had great misfortune today with your planes. My unit is new here. We arrived late this afternoon, a day early. Perhaps . . . perhaps you would wish to join us for dinner in town?”
He bowed again, hands on his thighs. Taro could see the sweat of his palms staining the fabric darker green. Do we make them nervous now? he wondered. Were he and Tomomichi bad luck? Or was it that they had survived death, that they were spirits now? Either way, it was no time to carouse at Tomiya Shokudo. Nor would he cast a dark shadow on these new men.
“Arigatō,” he said, knowing with a brief glance that Tomomichi agreed. “We are not worthy of such kindness. Our thoughts are with our brothers. We will meditate on following them.”
“Of course,” the boy said with a clipped bow. He left at a run. Eager to get away, if only for a moment, to the promise of life.
It was only then that Taro realized how funereal his world had become. The dirt beneath his feet was below ground level. The entire barracks was a crypt, a roof over a grave. A stone hand reached out to choke him. His eyes burned.
“What do we do now?” Tomomichi asked.
Taro collected himself. Cleared his throat.
“We can be glad we’re healthy, unlike poor Hiroshi,” he said. They’d each spent an hour by the side of their injured comrade. He might never heal well enough to finish his mission. “We will fly again tomorrow, or the next day. As soon as our planes are able.”
“What if they aren’t?” Tomomichi sounded desperately whiny. Like a child.
“They will be!” Taro shouted. His voice cracked. “They will be, or we will find new planes for ourselves. We cannot tolerate failure for long.”
“Hai,” Tomomichi whispered. “Hai.”
Taro lay back on his futon, imagining his funeral pyre. He stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, picturing the sky beyond and the last piece he’d played on his violin. He played it now in his mind. It helped to calm him. He took flight on the music, soaring into the sky, past stars and moon and planets whirling in orbit around the sun. He was the night wind. He was everything. He was nothing.
His fingers twitched. His arm ached.
He was earthbound.
And alone.
CHAPTER 34
HANA
The air is damp and cool this morning as Mariko and I clamber onto the truck that will carry us down to the airfield. The rest of the Nadeshiko are already on board—all of us exhausted from the extra demands of allotment day.
“Sensei, were our brothers successful yesterday in destroying the enemy?” Sachiko asks as we settle in. She still smells of yesterday’s chocolates. I suspect she dabbed it on like perfume. Nakamura was her new favorite. Now that he is gone, she will profess to pine for him. Like a geisha in a love story, she longs for what she cannot have. Hisako is different. Perhaps because she is a little older, or because she knows true loss. The boy she was to marry died at sea. Her grief is not a performance like Sachiko’s. She sits quietly up against the back of the truck cabin, her thoughts her own. On clear evenings, I have seen her at the temple on the hill where we gathered yesterday’s cherry blossoms. She combs her hair and dots it with flowers, looking off toward the sea that is miles from view.
Okā-san is right. Detachment is the way to happiness. Suffering is a choice.
“I have no news,” Sensei tells Sachiko. “But they were good boys, well trained. I am sure they scattered brilliantly. Shall we sing a song to honor them?”
And so it is that we are singing “Umi Yukaba” at the top of our lungs—myself included. I will detach by joining the rest.
But when we arrive at the base, we see that our barracks are not empty.
Sergeant Kawahara is waiting. He helps Sensei climb down from the truck bed and speaks to her urgently while the rest of us hop down unaided.
“Girls, attention, please,” Sensei says. The sergeant watches us nervously. “Sergeant Kawahara tells me that some of our brothers were unfortunate yesterday and were forced to return to base. I only need two girls to tend to the returned pilots. The rest of you will lend a hand to your classmates with the new arrivals.”
Sachiko steps forward, as do the rest of us. So she steps forward again. She’s brimming with desire. I can see it. Sachiko eats tragedy the way others eat salt. But I am not the only one who knows this. Kaori-sensei holds up a hand to stop her. “Ah. Wait. This is a sensitive mission. Our brave pilots are very upset and longing to join their brothers. This is a silent duty I ask of you. Hana, Mariko, you know to hold your tongues. You will take care of our unfortunate brothers until they are sent out again.”
Mariko and I bow. Sachiko makes a face, and though it’s unkind of me, I’m glad she’s been passed over. But as we approach the quiet barracks, I hesitate.
“Hana, what is it?” Mariko asks.
“Only, it’s so sad for these two to remain,” I say. But that is not why I hesitate.
The song we’ve been singing, “Umi Yukaba,” is about the honor of dying for the Emperor. A tokkō who comes back is dishonored. Some see it as cowardice. There is shame in outliving your comrades. And yet I prayed for this last night. I am afraid to see if that prayer has been answered.
“Come inside,” Mariko says. “They will be hungry. At least we can make the beds.”
The barracks, when we enter, is blessedly empty. But two beds are roughly made, one at the far end of the room, and another closer to the middle. I recognize it and catch my breath.
“I must go home,” I tell Mariko suddenly.
She turns to me, arms full of sheets from the other bed. “Are you ill?”
“No . . . I . . . please, Mariko. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Iie, you will not leave me here, Hana! Help me make the beds at least, while they are not here. And be back before we have to bring them lunch.”
“Hai, arigatō.” I bow to her and rush to strip the bed.
CHAPTER 35
TARO
Taro and Tomomichi returned from an unwanted breakfast and an encouraging conversation with the ground crew engineers—their planes required new parts, but they had them on hand. They would be flight-ready by nightfall.
And there it was on the white futon, waiting.
Tomomichi didn’t notice. “I’m going to the shrine to make an offering for tomorrow. Fair weather, and we will follow our brothers into the afterlife.”
“Hai,” Taro said, almost a whisper. He failed to see the troubled frown on Tomomichi’s face as he turned to leave. Taro only had eyes for his violin.
The case was as he had left it, deep and textured, not quite pristine, with his name carefully written on a label pasted on the side. He opened the box and smelled . . . something different. What? The scent of laundry, perhaps. Jasmine blossoms. The case had been opened, the violin touched. He ran his fingers lightly along the strings, the curving horse head.
Hana.
He needed to thank her.
Closing the case, he grabbed the handle, jumped up from his bed, and hurried out the door. This time of day, the girls were hanging up laundry or helping in the kitchen. He headed to the laundry lines. There they were. Nadeshiko, fresh and bright, so many more faces than he ever expected to see again. But not Hana. He wasn’t even sure he’d remember what she looked like. He had erased her. Why remember the face of one lone girl, when his father, his mother, his friends were ever present in his mind? For a moment he was glad. His moral fortitude was in place at last.
And then he found her, in the yard outside the kitchen, hanging up towels to dry.
“Hana-san?”
Her dark eyes widened. She dropped the towel she was pinning to the line and fell into the deepest of bows.
“Inog
uchi-san, are you well?” she asked, though from the blush on her cheeks, she was as aware of the irony as he was.
“I am well, Hana-san. Thank you for lending me your violin,” he said. The girl hesitated, then nodded.
“Of course. It is best when in the hands of a master.”
Taro flushed hotly. “Far from a master. A poor student at best. I’m afraid I neglected my training in favor of taking to the sky.”
Hana picked up the dropped towel and spent a certain amount of time dusting it off, but it was too damply dirty to pass off as clean. She folded it carefully and placed it on the ground.
“Hana-san.” Taro hesitated. But it was only right, he told himself. After all, the violin belonged to this girl now.
“May I play for you?”
Her face, when she looked up, shone like the sun, and he wondered that he ever doubted he would know her again. He knew, the way a ship knew its port, a pilot the shape of his parents’ home below.
“I cannot ask it,” she said, a catch in her voice. “But I would wish for it with all my heart.”
The catch seemed to travel. He cleared his own throat. “Well, then.” He found a stool behind the kitchen door and perched on it. Resting the case on his knees, he pulled the violin into the light of day.
“Please,” Hana said. She crouched before him, laying out another towel on the ground, this one dry and clean. She lowered her eyes as he rested the violin case on the cloth, away from the dusty earth.
“Arigatō,” he whispered, not meaning to be so quiet. She nodded softly and rose to continue her work.
Taro watched her, her lean arms, her black hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her dark eyes, the sun-browned curve of her cheek. Her baggy work pants and the dark blue sailor’s blouse with the white collar that looked so girlish and untouched by war. He placed his chin on the chin rest, raised his bow arm, and began to play.
CHAPTER 36
HANA
I hang the towels slowly, afraid that when the work ends, so will the song. Every so often, I steal a glimpse of Inoguchi Taro from behind the damp flaps of linen and cotton sacking. He is tall, his elbows and knees almost awkwardly far from his lean body. His cap, at first down low over his forehead, slides back and forth as he plays, craning his neck to his shoulder. It’s as if the violin is speaking to him and he must listen closely to hear its voice.
This is what it is to play beautifully—this conversation between player and instrument, with music as the translation.
But even military laundry does not last forever. Nor do songs play without end. As the last strains of music fade, I find myself intently watching Taro. I barely see the kitchen staff by the doorway, listening. Only Taro, as he opens his eyes to meet mine.
Attachment leads to suffering, Okā-san said.
But perhaps that is the price of joy.
CHAPTER 37
HANA
“Do you suppose it will rain tomorrow?” I squint up at the sky. There are clouds to the east over the ocean. But are there enough?
Mariko shakes her head. “Sensei says we are up early tomorrow, so I don’t think so. The clouds are moving away,” she notes. And I must agree with her. We keep walking. We’ve opted to walk home rather than ride in the truck. Even spending all day on our feet, sometimes it feels better to move on our own. Besides, we know what the enemy sounds like. It’s an easy thing to hide among the trees on foot. Trucks have a harder time of it.
We follow the river, within sight of the gray torii gate of Toyotama-hime Shrine. The tall, curving archway marks the entrance to a sacred space and acts as a perch for the messenger birds of the gods. Behind the great gateway, the shrine stands as it has for two hundred years, with its bright vermillion buildings and its clever collection of mechanical water dolls, delicate automatons powered by a water wheel. The shrine is dedicated to Toyotama, also known as the Dragon Princess, the daughter of the Sea King, descended from the sun goddess Amaterasu herself. Legends say Toyotama fell in love with a human and hid her true form. But when she gave birth to their son, her dragon shape was revealed. Her husband cast her out, but their child became the father of Jimmu, who became the first emperor of Japan. This shrine is as close as we in Chiran ever get to the Imperial might of the Chrysanthemum Throne. This, and the orders to go to war.
We used to attend festivals here as children and beg our parents for coins to purchase fortunes in hopes of great blessings. Bad fortunes were tied to the trees by the shrine steps, like little paper flags, so the bad luck could be washed away. But now, to my Nadeshiko eyes, the bold red buildings and tattered fortunes are targets for enemy bombers. The row of cherry trees leading to the shrine are merely decoration for Tokkō Tai. We keep to the far side of the river as we pass.
“What if we stop by the temple on the way home?” I ask.
“Not the shrine?” Mariko asks. We have two faiths in Japan. Shrines are for Shinto, and temples for Buddhism. Shinto tells us there is a spirit in every living thing. Buddhism teaches us that life is suffering and death is not the end. The spirit journeys and is reborn. It’s no wonder that weddings are Shinto occasions and funerals are Buddhist ones. But both faiths are for peace. I find I need some today.
“No.” It’s too bright, too exposed, too close to the air base. But I don’t say that. “The one by the school. Up the hill, where we used to play.” It was not uncommon, when we were babies, for our busy parents to leave us in the care of whichever mothers were sitting in the temple yard, letting their little ones play. We used to bring stale cakes to feed the birds. There is a nursery school there now, for the youngest children.
“Up the hill! Hana, my legs feel like clay today. You’d have to carry me!”
I say nothing, and she is silent for a while. Then, “Do you suppose the old monk is still there? The one with the bald spot he said was made by an angry bird?”
We both laugh. “We were terrified of birds for the rest of the year,” I recall.
“I still duck when sparrows swoop by,” Mariko says. Her cheeks are pink and merry. “You win. Let us go pay our respects,” she decides, and we branch off to the higher road that will take us to the temple yard. “Then you can carry me home!”
It’s the same and not the same as it used to be. No one is in school these days. There are no children playing on the flagstones, no visitors carrying pots to be blessed. But the temple and outbuildings are still somber and beautiful with their swooping roofs and carved eaves. The garden is still green, and the birds are still there, scratching and pecking in the yard. I wish we had some crumbs to give them. But now there are not enough crumbs to share.
We are sad to hear the old monk has moved on and give our best to the current monk, whose shaved head is sprinkled with white stubble. He has a warm face, and I am ashamed we have not visited before now. As we leave, Mariko points to the garden.
“Do you have any cherry trees? Perhaps we may take some boughs for tomorrow’s flight,” she says to the monk, explaining we are in service at the base. But the older man shakes his head.
“It will rain tomorrow. People are praying for it. Farmers. What else would they pray for?”
“Of course,” Mariko says.
I try not to let my heart trip my feet as we bow and say our farewells. Last night I wished for a miracle. Today, I wish for another. The clouds to the east are farther away than ever, and yet the words of the monk echo the words in my own heart. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.
Beside me, Mariko proves herself the wiser of us two. “Funny to think of what the monk said, isn’t it? Farmers need rain, yes. But why would they not also pray for peace?”
CHAPTER 38
HANA
How many farmers’ prayers does it take for a day like today? How many foolish, attached girls?
It’s raining. The new monk at the temple was right.
I am smi
ling at breakfast. My mother notices. “Ah, you must have something fun planned for today, neh?”
“No, just laundry and bed making,” I say. My tongue is a liar, but my lips betray me.
“Well, as long as you obey your teacher and stay safe, I am glad,” Okā-san says.
I will bring her a cup, no, two cups of green rice today if I am able. I will be able. The whole world is shining. Who needs the sun?
* * *
—
“Hana, be careful,” Mariko tells me as we climb into the back of the truck. “You think I don’t notice, but how could I not? You like that boy, Taro. It’s not wise. It’s dangerous!”
“Dangerous how?” I ask her. My well-meaning friend. Mariko has never felt the way I do today.
“Don’t give your heart to a dying man,” she says sadly. “You remember what happened to Lieutenant Fuji’i-san.”
The memory of the man, of his wife walking with their daughters into the river, is enough to silence me. Taro is like Fuji’i-san. He has been left behind. Surely he has moved on too far to think of me.
And what would that mean, anyway? A day of smiling foolishly, of begging him to play his violin? I have chores to do, beds to make, food to serve. Socks to darn. There will be new pilots. Even the rain cannot stop new units from arriving and the war from grinding on.
The rest of the ride to the camp is a somber one, with Sachiko complaining that her socks are wet, and the others failing to rouse enough girls to sing a song.
I hop down onto the wet earth with the others, the black mud splashing our socks, our geta grinding on the gravel as the soil washes away. There is no point in washing sheets that will not dry. There is only sewing and serving and pretending to be joyful. My heart is rarely in it. And now, not at all.
The Blossom and the Firefly Page 14
