So Far from the Bamboo Grove

by Yoko Kawashima Watkins

  Mother and I stood and bowed deeply, and my knees began to shake. Mother introduced us and asked if the school would accept me. “My daughter has been out of school since July.” She handed him my report sheets from Nanam that gave my parents’ names, father’s occupation, family status, and my grades.

  The principal studied the sheet. From somewhere I heard the chorus of “Blue Danube.” If they won’t take me, I thought, I can go north with Mother. She wouldn’t leave me at the station alone when Ko was in school. I began to hope they wouldn’t take me.

  Suddenly the principal looked at Mother, and then at me.

  He said in amazement, “You survived!”

  “We did.” Mother’s voice was low.

  “And your husband?”

  “We do not know. He was in Manchuria for the government when we fled.” I was glad he did not ask about Hideyo because I knew Mother would break down right there.

  “We shall be happy to accept your daughter,” the principal said. “I am sure she can catch up. The tuition is thirty yen a month and you must buy your own books and supplies. You may arrange all that with the clerk.” He sent for a Miss Asada.

  Miss Asada was a pretty lady dressed in a dark blue suit and a white blouse. She studied my report sheet and nodded. “Our school system is different from Korea’s,” she said. “I would like to give Miss Yoko some tests.” She led me to a desk and gave me paper and a pencil. While Mother talked to the principal I went to work on the papers: mathematics, national language, sentence construction, and a mental test of character.

  I saw Mother bowing to the principal. “Don’t go!” I begged.

  “I must take your sister to school.” She handed me three yen for carfare.

  “I don’t know how to get back!”

  “Take streetcar number three.” She bowed again, opened the office door, and silently closed it. My eyes followed her elegant walk until she disappeared. Suddenly I felt defenseless and abandoned, and I could not stop the tears. I made a fist of my left hand and bit my thumb as hard as I could, to fight my loneliness for Mother and Ko.

  I made tear spots on the work papers and finished them, sniffing and wiping away tears with my sleeves, as I did not own a handkerchief. I handed the papers to the principal, and Miss Asada came back to look over my work.

  “Very good.” She gave me a smile. Both she and Mr. Ishida seemed friendly, and I decided I liked this school. When the principal gave me a student’s handbook I liked him even more. Then Miss Asada and I walked to the classroom.

  I could hear the students talking as we went down the hall, but when Miss Asada opened the door there was sudden silence. Thirty girls stared at me. No teacher was in sight.

  “Everyone,” said Miss Asada, “this is Miss Kawashima Yoko.” In Japan everyone is officially called by the family name.

  I bowed deeply, but instead of return bows everyone began to laugh. The laughter went on. My hair, I thought. I tried to lay it flat.

  Miss Asada spoke firmly. “Silence! Miss Kawashima has just returned from Korea. She is a good student and I expect you to be helpful to her as she becomes used to this school.”

  She turned to me. “For your cleaning assignment today you will be part of the group that does this room.” Then she placed me in a back seat. I felt desperately unhappy and out of place with these girls in their fine clothes. All had long hair, some in braids.

  Then a man teacher came in, a history teacher, it turned out. I had no books, no pencil or paper, but I listened. Loneliness attacked me again and I sniffed back tears. I could not wait for school to be over so that I could get back to the station, where I belonged, with Mother and Ko.

  After class, I had to linger for my cleaning assignment. Some of the girls, as they went out, tossed papers into a wastepaper basket. This gave me an idea and I examined the basket. The papers were crumpled, but many had little writing and all were blank on one side. I picked them up and smoothed the wrinkled sheets. I looked for a pencil too, but there was none.

  “You want more paper?” a girl asked. She made an airplane with a piece of notebook paper and aimed at me. The others laughed. I bit my lip, but I did not shed tears when it flew, for collecting papers was a lot easier than looking for food in trash cans. Trying to ignore the girls, I unfolded the airplane and smoothed the wrinkles.

  There were six of us left to do the cleaning assignment. I had no dustcloth so I asked a girl with a broom if I could sweep, and she shoved the broom at me and walked off. As I swept and came near the girls who were dusting, they scattered, as if I were carrying contagion.

  If they had gone through what we had experienced, I thought, they would be compassionate. They just don’t know! Tears came again as I swept. I longed not only for Mother and Ko but for Father and Hideyo.

  Then a middle-aged man came in pushing a large cart. He saw the almost empty trash basket. He spoke, stuttering. “N-n-no t-t-t-trash?”

  A girl imitated him. “W-w-we h-h-have a n-n-new t-t-t-trash girl.” She pointed at me. The girls thought this was very funny.

  The man gave me a glance and went away. I ran to the next classroom after him. I remembered Father saying once that he had helped to cure a stuttering classmate by talking very slowly with him. I spoke slowly. “Are you going to burn all these papers?” He nodded. “I need papers badly and some pencils. Please let me go through all the trash.”

  “S-s-s-sure. C-c-come to the f-f-f-furnace r-r-r-room.”

  Again I spoke very slowly. “It is my first day. Where is the furnace room?”

  He told me. In the furnace room, waiting to be burned, I found plenty of usable paper, some short pencils, and even erasers. I gathered them all. Honorable Sister would be glad to have these. I thanked the man and at last dashed outdoors toward the streetcar stop.

  On the streetcar I wrote down as much as I could remember of the history and geography lessons. If I only had books! I decided to ask Miss Asada to lend me books until I could get my own at some secondhand store.

  The familiar Kyoto station came in sight and I jumped off, the bundle of papers in my arms. Mother was on the concrete floor of the station watching our belongings. She smiled at me. “How did it go?”

  “The girls were very snobbish, but I liked the lessons.”

  “You will find all kinds of people in this world,” she told me. “You will learn to handle them. Just do not lose your good values.”

  “Where is Honorable Sister?”

  “She’s not home yet. She went to school by herself so I could rest.”

  I showed Mother my papers and pencils from the furnace room and she laughed. “Our lives will be better when Father returns,” she told me. “For now we must just endure. We can endure anything now after what we have been through. Right?”

  I said, “Right!”

  Ko, it turned out, had passed entrance tests and been admitted to the University. She was delighted with my paper and pencils. I asked how her day had gone, thinking bitterly of the laughter and scorn I had experienced.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Didn’t they laugh at you?”

  “They did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. They have a lot to learn. I showed them how good I am at the academic work.”

  We studied that day on the station floor. Mother watched the benches and seized a vacancy when she saw one, calling us to come. So now we had space, and food, from the garbage cans, was no problem. Our tuition was paid for six months. Mother said she would take the early train north.

  How would she pay for the train, I wondered, for I knew she had little cash and no savings book. Ko wondered too. “I hope you didn’t sell yourself on the street yesterday?” she asked Mother, teasing.

  Mother laughed. “No, I brought some cash from Korea. Don’t worry. Just study hard, for me.”

  We got up extra early to see her off. She gave Ko some money for school supplies and for a cake of soap and toothbrushes and the streetcar fare
, half price for students. “I’ll be back next Friday,” she called as the train pulled out.

  EIGHT

  KO REARRANGED OUR RUCKSACKS. IN MY rucksack she put all the papers and in hers the mess kits, five canteens, eating utensils, matches, and candles. She gave me both of these to carry while she toted the huge wrapping cloth bundle. “Well, let’s go to school,” she said. “We’ll meet right here beneath the station clock.”

  When I entered the classroom a girl called out, “You brought two rucksacks for the trash?”

  This time I talked back. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Everyone laughed. I remembered what Ko had said and decided to pay no attention, but deep inside I wanted to beat that girl up.

  The trash man had not burned the trash when I showed up after school. I conversed with him, very slowly. I told him Kyoto was much warmer than northern Korea. He asked about Nanam. I was speaking so slowly that our conversation took a long time, but he seemed to enjoy it and for the first time I saw him smile.

  A few days later when I ran to the furnace room he was not there. I was busy picking out papers when he tapped me on the back. “S-s-s-saved th-th-them f-f-for you f-f-from t-t-t-trash. Th-th-thought y-y-you c-can u-u-use them.” He handed me a compass, scissors, a slide rule, and a dictionary!

  “Oh, thank you very much!” I spoke so slowly. “Now I have to make a good grade!”

  “Y-y-you are fine g-girl!” he said.

  I noticed that the words “are fine” had come smoothly from his lips. “I will see you tomorrow,” I said, wanting to hear his response.

  “Sayonara,” he said, very slowly but smoothly.

  “Sayonara!” I answered in the same way.

  All the way to the station my heart was skipping and hopping with happiness. Not only did I have a friend, but he was speaking almost normally. I couldn’t wait to tell Ko. Father was right. If everyone would speak to that man slowly he would get over his stuttering.

  On my fifth morning, as I entered the classroom, all the girls were gathered at the bulletin board. I went to see what they were looking at, and they scattered as they saw me with my two rucksacks. On the board was a huge drawing of me with my rucksacks, picking up trash in the furnace room. Under the drawing was writing. “Democratic System! Prestigious Sagano Accepts Trash-Picker as Student.”

  This did it. I would not spend another day in this class. Then there was a shout. The trash man. “Goddamn girls!” he yelled, and he did not stutter. He pulled off the drawing and tore it to pieces. “Go to your class,” he told me, and still he spoke smoothly. And in spite of my anguish I smiled at him, I was so happy at the way he spoke. “Keep smiling,” he said, and went away.

  I managed the classes that day. In the furnace room I stayed a little longer to talk with my friend, as this was to be my last day.

  Riding back to the station, I wondered how I was going to tell Ko that I would not go to school anymore. I was glad she was not waiting under the clock. It was five o’clock and a train pulled in, letting off many commuters on their way home. How I envied them. I have no home, I thought, no father, no brother, and right now no mother. Just a big sister who is strong and rough and sometimes very bossy. Still, she loves me. When we did not find much food in the garbage she gave me most of it, saying my little dumb brain would not function without food and winter winds would blow me away.

  Ko was coming now, walking fast and carrying our heaviest bundle. She leaned forward as she walked, and I thought she looked just like Father. He always looked down, thinking, as he strolled in the garden.

  Ko spotted me. “Have you waited long? Let’s go get some food.”

  As we walked toward the alley for our supper and breakfast supplies, I still did not know how to tell her. “I’ve had an idea,” Ko said. “I’ll be coming back to the station a couple of hours later now. So you do your homework and I’ll get our food on my way home. That will save time.”

  “What’s your idea? Why are you going to be late?” I asked.

  “I have things to do at school. Don’t ask questions.”

  I could not tell her my decision. And I dragged myself back to school. Somehow the days passed, and I endured.

  Then it was Friday and Mother would be back. I asked Ko if I could skip school. “No,” she said. “School is paid for and you can’t waste a day.”

  I could hardly wait for school to be over. No matter what scorn was poured on me, the thought of Mother made me so happy I seemed to be walking all day on silky clouds. I ran to the furnace room to gather my papers. I ran to the streetcar. The car was not running fast enough. I ran to the station building, my eyes seeking Mother.

  She was there, sitting alone, caped with her blanket. She looked lonesome and so tiny.

  “Welcome back!” I called, running. “I missed you!”

  She looked up and smiled. How pale she was, her lips white. “I missed you too, terribly!”

  I squeezed in between her and a lady next to her. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “A bit dizzy. Tired, I guess.” She was breathing hard.

  “How are our grandparents?”

  Mother shook her head weakly. “Destroyed—everything gone.” She paused. “My parents and your father’s parents were all killed in the July bombing.”

  I could hardly take it in. “What,” I said slowly, “are we going to do now?” I had thought we would go to Grandmother’s and be cared for.

  “I don’t know.” She seemed to breathe with difficulty. “I put up our land for sale, and I left your sister’s school address at the town hall if—if they hear from Hideyo or Father.” She was crying. “Isn’t your sister late?” She closed her eyes.

  The lady got up and I slid over to give Mother more room. She lay down and put her head in my lap. “Wake me when your sister comes.”

  Suddenly I felt grown-up. Suddenly I knew I must protect Mother. I wiggled out of my overcoat and covered her slender shoulders. Ko was carrying the blankets in the wrapping cloth. Why didn’t she come!

  “Littlè One,” Mother said, “I’m thirsty.”

  I pulled out a canteen and flew to the well. Mother is ill, Mother is ill! I dunked the whole canteen in the well, wanting it to fill fast. I raced back.

  She raised her head and drank. “Ah, thanks. It tastes good.” She lay down again. “I wish Ko would come.” She was panting.

  “She’ll come, she’ll come,” I told her. “She is getting us some food.” My eyes searched the crowd of people streaming through the station, wishing that Ko had not had that idea, whatever it was, that kept her two hours.

  Mother was speaking, her voice faint. “Little One, is she coming?”

  “Any minute, Honorable Mother.”

  “Hang on—hang on to the—wrapping cloth. Hang on . . .” Mother’s head slipped to one side, and her right arm dropped, and she was still.

  I knew. I screamed. “Mother! She is gone! Mother is gone!” I kept on screaming and crying.

  People gathered around us and the police took my name and asked questions—Mother’s name, her age, her hometown. The doctor had come, to pronounce Mother dead, when Ko finally arrived. She could not believe it. What had happened? What had Mother been doing? What had she said? I answered, sobbing, and told her how much Mother had wanted to see her. “I wished you were not staying in school those extra hours!”

  Ko knelt beside Mother. She pushed back Mother’s hair. She bit her lips tightly and tried not to show tears but she could not hold them back. Then she burst out. “You made it all the way from Nanam! Why now? Why now?” She threw herself over Mother and wept. Then she grabbed a mess kit full of food and slammed it down on the concrete floor. The lid burst open and the food scattered. Bystanders, beggars, orphans, station dwellers, quickly squatted down to feast.

  The police telephoned a funeral service and two men came. They asked Ko what type of casket we wanted. Ko said we had no money, but was there some way we could cremate the body? They said they could pu
t the body on a pine board and take it to a crematorium.

  “How much?” Ko asked.

  “Twenty yen, in advance.”

  Ko looked in Mother’s pouch and counted bills, trying not to let the money be seen. Somehow I did not like the attitude of the two men and I told Ko in Korean that they might be cheating us. Ko nodded.

  “Twenty yen is too high,” Ko said. “A pine board doesn’t cost that much.”

  “Gasoline and use of the truck,” said the man. “The truck consumes much gas and oil.”

  “How far to the crematorium?”

  “Very far, about an hour and half.”

  Ko was figuring. “What kind of truck do you have?”

  “A Datsun.”

  “A Datsun doesn’t consume much gas and oil. Twenty yen is too high.”

  “Are you gonna pay us in advance or not?” the man asked.

  “You bring your truck with the pine board. Deliver us to the crematorium and I’ll pay you.”

  “No way,” said the funeral service man.

  “Well, I’ll just have to call the city hall,” said Ko. “They’ll help us for free.”

  The men headed for the exit but one returned. “We’ll take you to the crematorium,” he said.

  The policeman chased all the people around us away and he stayed near us. Ko and I wiped Mother’s face with a damp cloth and combed her hair for our farewell. We were both sobbing. Mother was wearing her wartime national clothes, and Ko checked all the hidden pockets. She found some bills and coins, also Mother’s identification slip showing that she was a refugee from Korea. I put them in my rucksack. Then Ko drew the precious sword from between Mother’s breasts and slipped it against her own chest. She checked Mother’s socks. There was a hole in one and she slipped it off and put on one of her own. Then she brought Mother’s hands together against her breasts.

  It was then that a lady approached us. She was not a station dweller, but she was a familiar face for she came to the station every day. We had never spoken to each other.

  “I am Mrs. Masuda,” she introduced herself. “I am sorry about your mother. Is there anything I can do to help you?”