The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “It’s something to think about,” he added.

  “Hai.” Fumiko heard the unexpected rise in her voice as she agreed.

  She poured tea into a clay cup and placed it in front of Yoshio. But before she could turn away, he reached for her hand, his familiar warm grip holding tight.

  The Trench

  Hiroshi pushed his shovel with ease into the muddy ground, which was still saturated from the April rains. Murky puddles stood at the side of the road as he and his classmates Mako and Takeo began to dig. Digging trenches was far from the work in munitions plants or airplane-parts production they had hoped to be doing to help their nation’s war effort. Soon, their clothes would be covered in mud. He knew his obaachan would shake her head when he returned home, take the small amount of fuel they had and hurry him to bathe, while she soaked his clothes in a tub of water.

  At fifteen, Hiroshi was too young to fight for his country, but too old to be considered a child. He and his friends were all members of the Great Japan Youth Association, mobilized through schools to help in any way. Two days a week, upper-grade classes were suspended so that students could help dig slit trenches along the roadway. When the air-raid sirens sounded, students jumped into the nearest trench to squat or lie facedown with their hands or school-bags over their heads. Hiroshi knew the trenches were important protection, but they still looked like open graves to him, waist-deep furrows long enough to hold a dozen or more people.

  Several of his classmates had already left to work in factories, but he would have to wait until the schools were completely closed. The most important thing to his grandparents was his and Kenji’s education, even if it meant days of digging trenches, practicing air-raid drills, and writing slogans. As long as the schools were still open, his grandparents expected him to attend.

  As Hiroshi dug, he carved out the sides and packed the mud together with the back of his shovel. The sharp smell of wet earth brought back childhood memories of going down to the Sumida River with his ojiichan when he and Kenji were little. As they stood on the wooden bridge, looking down at the flowing water, his ojiichan told him of growing up in Hakodate. “As a boy, I swam every day during the summer months. I couldn’t get enough of the water. I’ll never forget your …” And then his voice trailed off and Hiroshi wondered if he was thinking of his daughter. He noted his grandfather always paused between words and his voice softened when he spoke of her. But his ojiichan never avoided speaking of his mother, and he continued, “I was too busy working when your okasan was young, I never taught her to be comfortable in the water, not like with you boys.”

  “Do you think she suffered?” Hiroshi had once asked. He was ten years old and couldn’t help wondering what it must have felt like surrendering to the dark, cold water, giving in after the struggle.

  His ojiichan watched the serene waters below. “I believe that what she must have suffered most was the thought of leaving you and Kenji.”

  A puddle of muddy water formed at the bottom of the trench as Hiroshi dug, and deepened as water streamed down the sides of the embankment. Watching the shallow pool grow, he realized that someone lying facedown in it could drown, and what an irony that would be.

  “Keep digging!” a voice shouted down at him. Hiroshi looked up to see a thin, narrow-eyed kempeitai officer who didn’t look much older than he was.

  “Hai,” he shouted back, catching quick glances from Mako and Takeo as they worked.

  Hiroshi gripped his shovel and dug faster and deeper. Then just as the officer turned away, he tossed a shovelful of mud up on the ground, close enough to splatter across the officer’s boots and pant legs.

  “You stupid bastard,” the officer shouted. “Look what you’ve done!”

  “Sumimasen.” Hiroshi stood straight and apologized. He bowed slightly, suppressing a smile.

  “I’ll teach you …,” the officer began.

  From the corner of his eye, Hiroshi saw the policeman’s muddy boot rising toward his head. As he dodged sideways, a spray of mud slapped against his cheek. Kicking air, the officer lost his footing and slipped backward onto the muddy ground, amid laughter from the boys. By the time he regained his footing, Hiroshi had scrambled up from the trench, slick with mud, and stood above him, tall and broad. They stared at each other, neither moving, until the officer leaned forward and muttered, “This isn’t over.” Mud covered the length of his back as he walked away.

  “What did he say to you?” Takeo asked.

  Hiroshi shrugged and jumped back down into the trench with a splash, only to realize that the water had risen a good three inches above his ankles.

  Resistance

  All through May as the skies cleared, dry, warm days settled in. Hiroshi and his family each had their own diversions—his obaachan still managed to put food on the table each night, while he and Kenji went to school, did volunteer work, and looked to a future of sumo and Noh masks. In their hurry to cover the void created by the war, his ojiichan had been left behind. Hiroshi couldn’t say what it was, but he noticed a change in his grandfather, how his restlessness and despair had suddenly given way to calm. He began to watch his ojiichan’s movements, his seeing without seeing, and he knew that his grandfather had gone completely blind.

  One balmy May evening as they climbed the narrow stairway to the tower, Hiroshi’s suspicions were confirmed by the careful way his ojiichan made his way up the stairs, and his complete tranquility in doing so. Usually, his ojiichan strained to catch any flicker of light, his face tense with concentration. Now, he looked straight ahead, as if he had accepted the fight was over.

  “Are you all right?” Hiroshi asked as they stood gazing out at the darkening sky.

  “Never better.”

  Hiroshi watched his ojiichan closely. “Does all the darkness frighten you?”

  His grandfather shook his head. “What is there to be frightened of? If all the glorious victories we hear about continue, we should have lights blazing and food on our table again by spring of next year.”

  Hiroshi swallowed. “Not the war. Your darkness.”

  His ojiichan turned toward him and smiled. “Since I’ve stopped resisting the inevitable, all is well.” He pulled out his pipe, used his thumb to pat down the pinch of tobacco he allowed himself, and never once fumbled. “You know, Hiro-chan, things can be just as frightening in the daylight.”

  Hiroshi watched in silence, as the small spark of his match flared and settled.

  “At least I’ll never have to worry about the blackouts,” his ojiichan joked.

  Hiroshi’s laugh strangled in his throat. It was like a candle flickering to its end, his ojiichan had once explained to him, the room darkening slowly. The night voices hummed below them like persistent mosquitoes. He wanted to swat them all away.

  “It’s going to be all right, Hiro-chan,” his grandfather said softly, laying his arm across his shoulder. “Now tell me, what do you see?”

  Hiroshi opened his eyes wide and stared hard until they watered. “Shadows,” he answered.

  “Behind the shadows, do you see that wooden stool in Yoshida-san’s courtyard to your right?” his ojiichan asked, pointing in the exact direction.

  Hiroshi gazed down to their neighbor’s courtyard and realized his grandfather had memorized it all—each beauty and blemish etched into his mind.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Even when it’s gone, thrown out, or used for firewood, I’ll still see it there. I’ll always see Mariko-san sitting on that stool practicing her cello. Do you remember when her music filled the air every night? We didn’t realize how lucky we were then,” his ojiichan said wistfully.

  Yes, Mariko-san’s music, Hiroshi thought. He heard again those clear, vibrant notes, a low, steady lament, or quick hops of happiness over the strings of her cello that used to fill their neighborhood with life. Hiroshi wished for them again.

  The Yoshidas had been his grandparents’ neighbors since before he and Kenji had come to live with t
hem. Mariko was five years older than Hiroshi, not beautiful, but always pleasant and sweet. When he and Kenji were little boys, she babysat them on the afternoons his obaachan went to help Ayako-san at the bakery when her daughter was expecting a child. Almost three years ago, just after his thirteenth birthday, Hiroshi developed a crush on Mariko. He peered every day through an opening in the bamboo thicket as she returned home from the conservatory, her arms wrapped around her cello the way he wished they were wrapped around him.

  She caught him once. “Hiroshi, is that you?” she asked, stopping and peering into the thick bamboo that separated their houses.

  He hesitated a moment, just a moment, watching the question remain on her thin lips. “Hai, yes, it’s me,” he answered, parting the bamboo curtain.

  “What are you doing there?”

  Again, he hesitated, his gaze on her smooth white hands that cradled the cello.

  “Are you playing?” she asked. “Is this a game you’re playing?”

  He remembered feeling hurt that she thought him a child playing. He had answered, “Hai,” though he wanted to say, “I was waiting for you. For a glimpse of you.”

  For as long as Hiroshi could remember, Mariko had played the cello. Accepted into the conservatory at fifteen, she often practiced in her family’s courtyard. He watched her with unabashed joy. It didn’t matter that she was older and had grown-up plans. One day she would see that he had grown up, too, and she would love him as much as she loved her music.

  Now, Hiroshi brushed aside the thought. His youthful passion for her had lasted one summer. Still, he could never look her straight in the eyes afterward. Just last week Hiroshi saw Mariko on the road, where she stood waiting for another stitch on her fiancé’s sen’ninbari belt. “So that he will remain safe from the enemy’s bullets,” he heard her tell a passing woman. And for the hundredth time, Hiroshi realized that the war had ended more than just his dream of becoming a rikishi.

  Two evenings later, as Hiroshi stood with his ojiichan up in the tower again, they were taken by surprise when the strains of cello music wafted up through the night’s darkness and enveloped them, at first tentative, then gradually growing stronger, louder.

  “Mariko,” his ojiichan whispered joyfully, closing his eyes to listen. “Bach’s First Cello Suite.”

  Hiroshi looked down to Yoshida-san’s yard but could only make out the shadow of Mariko sitting on the stool, the ghostly white of her kimono sleeve moving back and forth. Did she hear them speaking of her? Why was she playing now, just before blackout, and outside, in full view of the neighbors? Okata would surely notify the kempeitai.

  “Why now?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Music is in her blood,” his ojiichan answered. “Perhaps she couldn’t resist any longer.”

  They stood perfectly still, letting the low moan of notes move through their bodies with an almost cleansing sweep. To Hiroshi, the music felt like a moment of normalcy, a sudden light in his ojiichans darkness, another chance for his grandfather to feel the life that surrounded him.

  The next night after sunset, Mariko came out to the courtyard and began playing again, her notes soaring furiously into the night just after blackout. Hiroshi’s obaachan hurried next door and pleaded with the Yoshidas to stop her before the kempeitai came to their door and ordered her to stop. But after a moment’s quiet, Mariko began playing again. Hiroshi’s grandmother returned, shaking her head sorrowfully. Mariko’s fiancé had been killed in the Philippine Islands and she was inconsolable. Her tears stopped only when she played.

  Hiroshi remembered the dog down the street that the military police had ordered killed because of his frenzied barking just before each air raid. They called it a disruption of army communications, anything that might interfere with information concerning the enemy’s approach. Mariko’s cello music directly disobeyed blackout rules, though Hiroshi couldn’t understand how her music was anything but soothing in these difficult times. He knew her cello would be confiscated, and, worse, she might be taken in and questioned. Still, Hiroshi understood her grief and admired her courage as he watched her play, falling a little in love with her all over again.

  On the third night of her playing, Hiroshi took a piece of white origami paper and folded it into a crane, just as she had shown him as a little boy. “It’s the symbol of luck and happiness,” she’d told him. This time he inserted a stone inside to give it weight. When Mariko sat down and began to play, he threw the crane over the bamboo thicket and into her courtyard, where the small white shape landed beside her right foot. She never paused to look up, but played on, lost in the music. But Hiroshi knew the crane was there, right next to her, a small reminder of happiness.

  Minutes later, Mariko’s mother’s screams brought them rushing from their houses to the Yoshidas’ front gate. Hiroshi pushed his way to the front of the small crowd, only to be stopped by a military policeman who held out his rifle, its bayonet pointed at his chest.

  “No further,” he directed.

  Hiroshi stopped, and looked over the shoulder of the policeman and into the courtyard.

  “Stop!” he heard an angry voice yell. “Stop now or you’ll suffer the consequences!”

  Mariko sat on the wooden stool, dressed in a white mourning kimono, her wide sleeves moving back and forth like wings, the origami crane still lying on the ground by her stool. Hiroshi recognized the sad Bach cello suite she played. As the music filled the air, she closed her eyes again; a thin smile crossed her lips. She was oblivious to the policeman ordering her to stop.

  “I said, stop right now!” the policeman ordered again. He glanced toward the small crowd, and grew more furious at Mariko, who dared to disobey his orders in front of others. Then, with a motion so swift Hiroshi didn’t see it coming, he pulled out his pistol and fired a shot into the air. The pungent smell of gunpowder rose into the night.

  The crowd scattered. Hiroshi saw his obaachan lead his ojiichan away but Hiroshi remained. If only he could get to Mariko, he would convince her to stop. He heard the frantic pleading of her parents, “Dozo, Mari-chan, please stop,” mixed with the angry police commands.

  Hiroshi rushed forward, pushing past the guard, who pushed back, a look of surprise on his face. In the next moment, Hiroshi felt a quick sting as the sharp tip of the guard’s bayonet slashed his forehead. He stepped back and swung a fist at the guard but the rifle butt slammed into his ribs. Doubled over in pain, Hiroshi forced himself to look up. A gush of warm blood blurred his vision and covered his right cheek. Just then, the other policeman lowered his pistol and fired again, this time not into the air, but straight at Mariko’s cello.

  Days later, despite his throbbing wound, now closed with thirteen stitches, despite his ribs bruised purplish-green, Hiroshi remembered this: a split second after the gun was fired Mariko opened her eyes in surprise, tipped her head, and glanced downward. Did she see the white crane beside her foot? Hiroshi liked to think so. No, he knew so. But there followed a moment in which everything seemed to freeze, all except the final exquisite note from her cello that hung in the air as she fell to the ground.

  Omiyage

  The week after Mariko’s death, the days turned hotter, and the humidity suffocating. For Fumiko Wada, the war had taken a horrific turn—the murder of Mariko and the wounds Hiroshi suffered made it personal. Survival had taken on a new face—it was no longer about foraging for food or losing her wedding ring or honoring her emperor and country. It was about her family, and had nothing to do with the war fought in distant places. This war took place right in Yanaka. The anger and despair she felt was oppressive like the heat, pressing down on her like a great weight.

  She ran up and down to Hiroshi’s room, making sure he was comfortable, snapping at Kenji, who sat by his side from the moment he returned from school until he left again the next morning. “Let your oniisan sleep,” she told him. But he shook his head and remained as silent as his brother. It was all Fumiko could do not to scream.

  So when
friends and neighbors came to visit, bringing omiyage, small gifts, it was unexpected. So many traditions had been abandoned since the Pacific War. They came to see Hiroshi, to mourn Mariko’s death and honor her grandson’s courage. Each omiyage meant so much more because there was so little to give. Before the war their gifts would have been a box of mochi filled with red bean, a tin of dried seaweed, green tea, a box of chocolates, or her favorite butter cookies, each beautifully wrapped in noshi paper and mizuhiki string. Now, as Fumiko bowed low and received each gift, it was accompanied by an embarrassed glance or an apologetic word for its modest presentation. Fumiko accepted each omiyage, touched beyond words.

  Later, she carefully untied each furoshiki to see the cloth wrappings made from material scraps cut out of kimonos, tablecloths, even a cotton yukata robe she remembered seeing Mori-san wearing. And in each, Fumiko found small tokens of her neighbors’ lives, three polished stones, a conch shell, a pair of lacquer chopsticks, and a paperweight with the word “Sweden” carved in its wood base. But it was Ayako’s gift, the packet of ginseng tea, that moved her to tears.

  “To give Hiroshi strength,” Ayako said, stepping into the genkan, and handing her the folded paper packet. Only her old friend had dispensed with the formalities of gift giving and pulled the packet from the folds of her kimono sleeve.

  Fumiko bowed to her old friend. “It’s as if the world has gone mad,” she said, upon rising. “I just thank the gods Hiro-chan’s wounds will heal.”

  Ayako agreed. “Hiroshi is a strong boy.” Then she raised her voice angrily. “You would think they’d use their strength to fight this war rather than kill the innocent!”