Dolls of Hope

by Shirley Parenteau

  She tugged Chiyo forward. “You and I are going to be great friends! And there . . .” She motioned toward a door at the end of the walkway. “There is Hanarai-sensei’s office.”

  With the imaginary koi leaping inside her, Chiyo followed Hana to an office at the far side of the classrooms.

  Inside, she bowed politely with Hana, glimpsing Hanarai-sensei through her eyelashes. He was a large man, a door she could not pass unless he wished it.

  He studied her without smiling. “You are the girl whom Yamada Nori wishes to enroll.”

  For a frantic moment, Chiyo thought he was closing the door against her, that his large square body would block her from the school. If she wasn’t accepted here, what would she do? Where would she go?

  Softly, she said, “I have promised to work very hard, Hanarai-sensei.”

  “We shall see.” He turned to Hana. “Miss Nakata, please take our new student to Mrs. Ogata. See that a uniform is found for her.”

  Relief swept through Chiyo. He was letting her stay even though he looked at her as if examining a species of moth he did not wish to add to his collection of butterflies.

  She pictured a scale with saucers on each side. One side weighed a good report for Yamada-san. The other side weighed bad reports. She hoped that second side would remain empty, but she could see it was going to take work from her before Headmaster sent a report to the good side.

  “Arigatogozaimasu,” she said, bowing again before following Hana from the office. Relief made the air of the courtyard feel fresher. The scent of unfamiliar flowers smelled sweeter. Silently, Chiyo promised that Headmaster would not regret enrolling her.

  “This way,” Hana said, leading her along a pathway to the building she had pointed out earlier. Inside, stairs at one end led to a large open room. Mrs. Ogata, a sturdy woman with a crisp manner, also looked at Chiyo as if she saw a moth.

  While Hana hurried away to class, the woman led Chiyo to a closet with a sliding panel. Under Mrs. Ogata’s sharp eye, Chiyo arranged her floor cushion and few belongings on a shelf below the rolled futon that would be hers.

  As if reading from a list she no longer needed, Mrs. Ogata explained the rules. “To pay for their stay, boarding girls are expected to rise before daylight and begin their chores. Those will include cleaning not only your own space, but the walls and floors. You will also help with laundry, carry in bathwater, and wash dishes after meals.”

  That sounded like a lot to do in addition to schoolwork, but Chiyo was used to rising early and working hard. She was glad she would be busy. She would have less time to miss her family.

  As she followed Mrs. Ogata back down the stairs, the courtyard filled with the sounds of girls’ voices and clattering geta. Classes had ended for the day. Chiyo glimpsed the town girls on their way home, several wearing heavy silk kimonos. Talking and laughing together, they made their way down the walkways and out of the gates, clearly the butterflies in Hanarai-sensei’s collection. He could be proud of them. Could he be proud of a moth? Yes, Chiyo told herself, for moths are strong and beautiful in their own way.

  In the dining area, Hana called her to a space near the end of a long table. Chiyo joined her, glancing around the table. Miyamoto Hoshi was not here, but she could learn from these girls. A delicious aroma rose as a small baked fish was set before her. The moment she began to eat, Mrs. Ogata interrupted. “Miss Tamura, take smaller bites, please. You will never see Miyamoto Hoshi shove an entire fish into her mouth.”

  Country girls learned to eat fast so they could be in the fields before dawn and do as much work as possible before school. Chiyo felt her appetite disappear beneath a rush of embarrassment.

  “You’ll get used to her,” Hana promised.

  Mrs. Ogata exclaimed, “Miss Nakata, Miyamoto Hoshi will never show food in her mouth when she speaks.”

  A girl nearby said, “I wonder if we will ever learn manners as perfect as Hoshi’s.”

  Hana covered her mouth with her hand while her eyes sparkled. Chiyo could not smile back. Again, she felt out of place.

  Hana may laugh, but I will hold my mouth as Hoshi does and eat slowly and learn to walk with quick, tiny steps. When Yamada-san returns, he will be proud of a new Chiyo.

  As she carefully separated a small piece of fish with her chopsticks, the effort felt stiff and wrong. Obviously, there was more to learn at Girls’ School than writing kanji characters and learning dance steps.

  By the time she relaxed on her futon, Chiyo was happy to have become friends with Hana. She thought the school’s strict policies could never dim Hana’s laughter.

  “We are learning a song for the American dolls,” Hana said from the next sleeping mat. “It’s called ‘The Welcome Song.’ Do you know it?”

  “No, but I’d like to,” Chiyo said, remembering the dolls Yamada Nori had described.

  “I’ll teach you,” Hana assured her. “It begins like this. . . .”

  But Mrs. Ogata called for silence and put out the light.

  Chiyo turned restlessly. Even the sounds were wrong. She listened for frogs but instead heard occasional footsteps and voices from the street that made her feel unsafe.

  She reached into her folded clothing and brought out the kokeshi doll her sister had given her. Holding Momo close, smoothing her thumb along the doll’s painted kimono, she thought of home until gradually sleep claimed her.

  After chores and breakfast, Chiyo walked to class with Hana and several others. Each carried a cushion, so Chiyo was surprised to see desks and chairs in the classroom. “Why are we bringing cushions?”

  “They make the chairs more comfortable,” Hana said with a grin. “And we use them to save a good seat in the room before the town girls take them all.”

  Another girl called and Hana went away to talk to her. Chiyo decided on a seat at the front of the room where she could see and hear the teacher. Yamada-san would not be sorry that he was spending so much money to send her to this school.

  She placed her cushion on a seat in the front row, then joined another girl who was sharpening her slate pencil at a table in a corner. Raised voices told her that the town girls were arriving for class. As they came in, their confidence took over the room. Most wore school uniforms today, but even in dark skirts and blouses, they dressed more richly than Chiyo in her borrowed uniform.

  A question asked in a pleasant voice with a bite beneath it silenced everyone. “Whose cushion is this?”

  Before she turned, Chiyo knew the cushion would be hers and that Miyamoto Hoshi would be holding it by one corner as if it were a fish going bad. I will remember and copy the patience with which she observes the unwanted item.

  On the heels of that thought came another, hotter one. No one told me others might have saved seats ahead of time. She drew in a breath to answer. “The cushion is mine.”

  The stylish town girl looked at her with pity on her perfect face. “You are new, so you do not know you have broken a rule. My name is Miyamoto Hoshi. I sit in this chair. Every day.”

  Instead of offering the cushion to Chiyo, she handed it to a girl in the row behind. That girl threw it to a girl in the next row. While Chiyo watched, her face growing hotter, the cushion flew from girl to girl toward the back of the room. Some girls hid smirks, while others looked sympathetic. No one looked surprised.

  Across the room, Hana pursed her mouth in the “Hoshi shape” Chiyo had worn when trying to be like Hoshi the day before. Chiyo understood the warning to remain serene. She thought that holding their mouths like rosebuds might quickly become a joke between Hana and herself.

  But she didn’t feel like laughing or even smiling. Humiliated and confused, she stood frozen at the front of the room while her cushion sailed from girl to girl.

  The sensei, Mrs. Kaito, swept into the room and cast a sharp glance over them all. The cushion landed abruptly on the floor at one side. Sensei motioned toward it. “Whose property is this?”

  I should have asked where to sit before placi
ng my cushion on a chair, Chiyo told herself. Feeling her skin grow hot, she said with apology, “Sumimasen, Sensei, the cushion is mine.”

  “You will retrieve it, please.” The teacher turned to Hoshi. “Miss Tamura has come to us from a country school and will need to catch up with the rest of you. I wish her to sit at the front. Since you are an excellent student, Miss Miyamoto, you will not mind moving to a seat at the back for a time.”

  Hoshi’s expression remained as untroubled as a still pool. She flowed to her feet, placed her hands at her waist, and bowed gracefully, first to the teacher, then to Chiyo. When she moved to the rear, she seemed to float rather than walk in the kimono she preferred to wear.

  Hoshi acted older than the rest, Chiyo thought. How did she walk as she did, as if a stream carried her instead of her two feet? If she felt annoyed to be told to sit at the back, her face did not show it.

  It was too late to return her unexpected bow. Belatedly, Chiyo, too, bowed to the sensei. As she did, Masako’s kokeshi clattered to the floor from the pocket of her borrowed shirt. Girls giggled while she snatched it up.

  “What is that, Miss Tamura?” Sensei asked.

  Chiyo held out the doll. “My sister gave it to me to remind me of home.”

  “Place it on my desk, please.”

  Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see what she would do. For a rebellious moment, Chiyo thought of shoving Momo into her pocket.

  As if the doll spoke with her sister’s voice, she imagined Masako saying, Stay calm and make us proud of you.

  She could do that. She would do that. Softly, she said, “Hai, Sensei,” and placed the doll on a corner of the desk before retrieving her cushion and returning to the chair at the front.

  She wondered if Sensei had asked her to sit there in order to keep an eye on a possible troublemaker. The thought brought new heat to her face.

  The teacher displayed the doll to the class. “Kokeshi are made by craftsmen in Northern Japan. Each is signed on its base.” She turned the doll, showing the artist’s kanji signature at the bottom. “As all of you know, dolls have long held an important place in our culture.”

  She placed Momo on her desk. “You also know of the American Friendship Dolls now in Yokohama.”

  In the back, Hoshi must have raised her hand. The teacher said, “Miss Miyamoto? Does General Miyamoto welcome this gesture of friendship?”

  Hoshi spoke with a mixture of sorrow and iron in her voice. “My father says our country must expand our borders, not hold our hands out for dolls like children offered sweets. If expansion requires war, then war will come. Friendship Dolls will not prevent it.”

  Everyone had turned in their seats to look at her. Now they swiveled back for the teacher’s response.

  “Thank you, Miss Miyamoto,” Sensei said. “Your honorable father is highly respected, but I feel I must point out that none of us can see the future.”

  “Father says America is a weak, frightened country to send dolls to us,” Hoshi answered. “I am sorry, but I cannot welcome them.”

  “Our emperor has welcomed the dolls,” the teacher reminded her quietly. “During a ceremony to be held in Tokyo, the granddaughter of the shogun Prince Tokugawa will accept the first doll. I believe the exchange will be charming.”

  “May it go well,” Hoshi said, adding sadly, “My father says Japanese children must show they cannot be bought with pretty dolls.” She bowed her head, but not before Chiyo saw a surprisingly unpleasant glitter in her eyes. That glitter said that Miyamoto Hoshi agreed with her father.

  Kaito-sensei rang a small bell on her desk, calling for order as several of the girls spoke at once. “While I greatly respect General Miyamoto,” she said when they were quiet again, “in this case I must agree with our emperor and empress, who are welcoming the dolls.”

  Chiyo stared at Masako’s kokeshi on a corner of the teacher’s desk while trying to understand Miyamoto Hoshi. Of course the girl must respect her father’s views.

  “We are told that the American children donated pennies for the project,” Sensei continued. “Our emperor will express our country’s gratitude. You — all of you — are invited to help pay for dolls to be made by our finest doll makers and sent in return to the children of America.”

  Chiyo sat straighter on her cushion, thinking of the coins that Yamada Nori had given her. “I would like to donate a sen.”

  “Arigatogozaimasu, Miss Tamura. I will place a donation box on my desk.”

  Chiyo waited to hear Hoshi offer to donate a sen, or even several, but the girl remained silent. Maybe she felt insulted by the teacher’s failure to agree with her father.

  Sensei continued, “The Torei Ningyo, or, in English, Dolls of Return Gratitude, will be ninety centimeters in height — thirty-five inches — the size of a small child.”

  Again, a murmur moved about the classroom. Chiyo thought of Yumi’s three-year-old sister. She was about ninety centimeters tall. The dolls going to America would be the size of little Kimi. Yamada-san had described the American dolls as much smaller, small enough to carry about in her arms.

  “Japan will send fifty-eight beautiful Torei Ningyo to America,” Sensei added. “Who can tell me why that number was selected?”

  The girls looked at one another. No one raised a hand. Maybe they were afraid to give a wrong answer. At last, Kimiko, a girl next to Chiyo, said, “It cannot be for the number of prefectures in Japan. There are only forty-seven.”

  Another girl risked asking, “Will they be named for our cities?”

  “You are both correct,” Sensei answered, and a soft sigh of relief swept the class. “Most of the fifty-eight will represent our prefectures. Others will bear the names of territories and of our largest cities.”

  She glanced around the class. “Can you tell me what the fifty-eighth doll is to represent?” She glanced toward the back. “Miss Miyamoto?”

  “I am sorry, Sensei,” Hoshi answered. “I do not know.”

  Chiyo saw several girls glance at one another. Was Hoshi sulking and refusing to answer? Then a girl near Kimiko suggested, “The emperor and empress.”

  “You are close,” the teacher told her.

  Chiyo raised her hand as inspiration struck. “Will the last doll represent all of Japan?”

  “Hai,” Sensei said. “The finest doll will be given by the emperor and empress and will be called Miss Dai Nippon, or, in English, ‘Miss Japan.’”

  Sensei marked a mathematics problem on the board, explaining the distance from San Francisco to Yokohama and telling them that the American dolls’ journey had taken ten days.

  “Use your slates to work out answers. How fast did the ships travel? How far did they travel in one day?”

  Chiyo tried to work out the problems, but her thoughts kept drifting from the ships to the dolls they had carried. What would they look like? Some might have blond curly hair and even blue eyes, far different from dolls made in Japan. She hoped she would have a chance to hold one of them.

  “Miss Tamura.” Sensei’s voice wrenched her back to the classroom. “Do you have the answer?”

  “No, Sensei,” she answered, regretting the seat in the front row. “I am still working on it.”

  Hoshi spoke into the pause, again sounding sad. “Be careful of opening your hearts to the dolls, my friends. My father, General Miyamoto, would give his life for our emperor, but he fears that someday we will regret welcoming these foreign dolls. They should be destroyed. The emperor will come to see that.”

  The other girls murmured in dismay, and for a moment, Chiyo felt sorry for Hoshi. What must it be like to have a father who wanted the emperor to wage war against dolls?

  When class was dismissed, the girls left the room in orderly rows to go down the walkway to dance class. Chiyo looked wistfully at Masako’s kokeshi. She didn’t dare step out of line to take it, and reminded herself that Momo was safe on Sensei’s desk. She would come back for the doll at lunchtime.

  The o
ther girls in dance class moved like reeds on a pond, in graceful steps familiar to them but not to Chiyo. Yet the music flowed through her as it did when she sang with the wind while following paths through the hills near her home.

  “Sumimasen,” she said in apology to Oki-sensei, the dance teacher. “I have never learned this dance. It isn’t taught in my other school.”

  “Just follow the steps of the girl in front.” The teacher guided her into line and hurried across the room to correct another group.

  The girl in front was Hoshi. She seemed unaware of Chiyo behind her. Hoping she wouldn’t turn around, Chiyo concentrated on copying her steps.

  Hoshi’s foot moved sharply.

  Chiyo followed. Too late, she saw Hoshi pull her own step back. It was a trick.

  The teacher hurried to straighten the line. “I’m afraid you are far behind the others, Miss Tamura. Please sit on the side. Watch how the others move.”

  Chiyo found a seat beneath a window, telling herself, I should have pulled my step back when Hoshi moved sharply. Everyone behind me became confused.

  It was not entirely my fault! Inside her head, resentment spoke louder as the lesson began again. In her mind, she removed dance class from the bad side of the scale where it had landed. The general’s daughter had deliberately made a false step. That should not weigh against me.

  During a break near the end of the session, Hana slipped onto the seat next to her. “It’s too bad you don’t sing. That could put Hoshi in her place.”

  Chiyo looked at her, startled. “I do sing. I like to.”

  “Are you good?”

  “They said so at my other school. What does that have to do with Hoshi?”

  “Nothing. I should not have mentioned it.” Hana slumped forward, one hand on her chin. “The vocal group is filled, with Hoshi singing the lead. She always sings the lead.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “She’s good,” Hana said, “but not as good as the teachers say. They rave over her because her father is important. And . . . his wealthy family gives a lot of money to the school.”