Chiyo concentrated on her noodles and broth to keep from staring at the women. Hana must have peeked, however. She murmured, “How strange their hair must feel swinging against their faces.”
Masako now wore her hair in a divided chignon. When she married, she would arrange it into a single round bun to show that her heart was one with her husband’s. Softly, Chiyo asked, “How can anyone know from such a style whether they are married or single?”
“No one would marry such women,” Hoshi said. “They must all be without husbands.”
Both teachers nodded agreement.
Above the sounds of people enjoying their noodles, parts of the women’s conversation reached Chiyo. Their words startled her even more than their loud voices.
The flappers all worked in a business office. How was that possible? Wasn’t business for men? The women laughed often and didn’t bother to lower their eyes when a man walked past.
Shizuko cast a sidewise glance. “How sad that they behave so freely.”
Shizuko was beginning to sound like Hoshi, Chiyo thought. I wish to be as graceful as Hoshi, but I will never think like her.
Oki-sensei drew their attention. “We have an afternoon free. I will escort any of you who would like to shop.”
As they made excited plans, Chiyo remained silent. Hana turned to her. “You can come, Chiyo. You can enjoy looking at everything.”
That didn’t sound like fun to Chiyo. She didn’t want to remember her lost coins while everyone else bought sweets or souvenirs.
Oki-sensei said quietly, “Miss Tamura, you might like to use the time to write to your parents. You may take a sheet of paper and an envelope from those in my trunk.”
Chiyo thought of her parents’ pleasure and surprise on receiving a letter from her. Would a mail carrier make a special trip to the village? Maybe Yamada Nori would stop by the school again and she could send it with him.
“Arigatogozaimasu,” she told the teacher. “They will be pleased to hear from me.”
Upstairs, the girls gathered jackets and purses and rushed away while Oki-sensei selected paper for Chiyo along with a fresh nub for her pen and a box of ink.
While Sensei hurried after the others, Hoshi paused beside Chiyo. “I am sad to see you forced to remain in the room alone. I can spare one sen for you to spend.”
Hoshi would enjoy watching me look at the prices of things I can’t buy, Chiyo warned herself. Even if I could buy something for a sen, Hoshi would remind me of her generosity through the entire trip. “You are generous, but I will stay and write to my parents.”
“As you wish.” As Hoshi started for the door, a very young maid came in with towels piled in her arms. “Girl,” Hoshi said in a manner suited to an empress. “Can’t you see the room is occupied?”
The maid bowed her head. She looked even younger than Masako, maybe no more than fifteen or sixteen. Chiyo wondered if this was her first job. “Hoshi, she must have thought we were all out shopping.”
“For her own good, the girl needs to learn that guests must not be interrupted by housekeepers.”
“Gomennasai,” the girl apologized, keeping her head low.
“What is your name?” Hoshi asked. “The hotel management should know they have untrained employees.”
The maid hunched her shoulders. She had become very pale. In a soft voice, she answered with her last name, as everyone did. “I am Toyama, miss.”
Could Hoshi’s complaint cost the girl her job? Chiyo knew how important work could be when a family depended on the income, and she could not keep silent. “She is just doing her work.”
“It is our duty to train her to do it right.” Hoshi permitted herself a superior expression. “Not that you would know. I’m afraid you are only fit to be her, not to be served by her.”
Chiyo had let Hoshi’s insults roll off since meeting her, but someone had to speak for the maid. “Toyama is not at fault. She brought the extra towels for me. I knew you would use too many.”
Stepping forward, she took the towels from the girl’s trembling hands. “Arigatogozaimasu, Toyama.”
A man spoke from the open doorway into the hall. “My daughter, you have learned a lesson. A leader gathers all the facts before speaking.”
“Otousama!” Hoshi exclaimed, using the formal expression for her father and bowing with deep respect. “I did not expect you, Otousama.”
Chiyo bowed, too, feeling awkward with towels in her arms and glad to glimpse the maid slipping from the room. General Miyamoto looked as if a smile never challenged the severe line of his mouth. He wore a sharply pressed uniform with many medals over his chest, but it was his expression that made her shiver.
Her own father had looked at her with disapproval many times, yet she had always seen love in his eyes. There was no tenderness in General Miyamoto. Had he come to visit his daughter? Or was he here to see if she was behaving as he expected? Chiyo didn’t want to feel sympathy for Hoshi. But she did. Her own father would never shame his daughter before another.
“There is a second lesson here,” General Miyamoto continued, as if offering a lecture to a group slow in learning. “A leader does not gain power by abusing those who serve.”
Hoshi looked as if she were keeping herself humble with an effort, her body stiff and her head down. She will never forgive me for seeing her humiliated, Chiyo realized, and, like the maid, quietly eased from the room.
When General Miyamoto joined the group for dinner, Hoshi glowed with pride. She sat near her father, looked at him often, and gazed kindly at the others as if she were empress and they her people.
The teachers appeared to agree with every word the general uttered. Chiyo’s fingers tightened around her chopsticks when he said of the dolls, “Let us hope our emperor has a reason for this exchange. When we welcome toys from a country we may someday wish to include in our empire, our country appears weak. Japan must show strength our enemies will recognize.”
Chiyo kept her gaze on her plate so no one would see rebellion sparking in her eyes. Why would Japan want to invade a country so far away?
She was glad to hear Watanabe-sensei object even in a mild manner. “We noticed posters welcoming tourists posted at the rail station.”
The general chuckled. “I believe you have discovered the emperor’s reasoning. First, welcome their tourist money, then . . .” He left the word invasion to everyone’s imagination, but it was there in his voice.
He has been too long in the military, Chiyo thought. I am beginning to understand Hoshi, and even to pity her a little.
She was glad to unroll her futon and blanket soon afterward, with the fusuma screen between sleeping spaces closing her away from everyone but Hana.
She dreamed of dolls crowded onto the deck of a ship. They were smiling and waving toward the shore. Their blue eyes sparkled and blond curls bounced. But then General Miyamoto appeared on the dock. He pointed sternly to the water, and the ship with all the dolls sank beneath the waves.
What did that mean? Chiyo wondered on waking. Horrified, she shook her head to clear the dream away.
Watanabe-sensei joined them for breakfast as he had promised, followed by a rickshaw tour of Tokyo. This time, Chiyo noticed Western smells that were stronger than the lime, soy sauce, and drying herbs she expected. Tobacco smoke made her nose wrinkle, but the tempting aroma of chocolate was as strong. She breathed that in with pleasure, almost tasting the creamy dark sweetness.
The tour ended at a noodle house, where they sipped green tea and enjoyed bowls of plump noodles with many vegetable and fish toppings offered in small lacquered side dishes.
“You girls have been patient,” Oki-sensei said as they sipped the last of their tea. “Are you ready to see the American dolls?”
“Yes!” Chiyo clapped one hand over her mouth. The word had burst out.
Hoshi’s lips tilted with superior amusement.
“A few rules must be discussed,” Oki-sensei warned. “Under no circumstances are a
ny of you to touch the dolls. We will walk past the display and admire only with our eyes. I do not wish to see any one of you put even a finger on a doll.”
Watanabe-sensei leaned forward. “The ceremony will take place in a building near the beautiful Meiji Shrine. Many children will be present, both from the American school in Tokyo and from our schools, with speeches and songs from both countries.”
Chiyo had not heard that American children were in Tokyo. She listened in surprise as Sensei explained that the Americans had their own school. Would they have blond hair? She was sure the dolls would be blond, with eyes so blue, you could almost see into their heads.
“Where will the dolls go after today?” Kimiko asked.
“The little doll messengers will be displayed for a short time, then taken to primary schools and kindergartens throughout the country.”
“We’ll get one, won’t we?” Hana asked.
“We may. Sadly, there are not enough for each school in Japan to receive a doll, but the schools chosen will each hold welcoming ceremonies.”
If she had not been sent to Tsuchiura, she would have missed so much, Chiyo marveled. She could hardly remember why she had first resisted Yamada Nori’s decision to send her to school.
As Watanabe-sensei sat back, Oki-sensei said, “You should all be very proud. Not only are you representing Tsuchiura Girls’ School, today you are becoming part of history.”
Hoshi spoke in a pleasant tone with an edge that echoed her father. “It is to be hoped that history will not call us foolish.”
Watanabe-sensei frowned. “Please do not be negative, Miss Miyamoto. Today is for celebrating. We will all take part.”
“Hai, Sensei.” Hoshi bowed her head but added, “Let us hope there is no explosive in a doll set to blow up in the hands of the welcoming girls.” Everyone looked at her in horror. She kept her eyes down, her expression serene, and said no more.
“There is no explosive,” Chiyo whispered to Hana. “Hoshi wants to ruin the day for all of us.”
Oki-sensei said firmly, “Girls, you will clear your minds of unpleasant thoughts.”
As bearers pulled their rickshaws down the street, Chiyo felt as if she had waited for this day her entire life. She was amazed by the number of automobiles. Near the hall, motors rumbled as if demons gathered, all of them thunderous with smoky exhaust.
Hundreds of girls gathered inside the hall. Huge Japanese and American flags decked the wall beyond a cloth-draped table arranged for speakers.
Chiyo looked curiously at the girls from the American school in Tokyo. “How tall they are,” she murmured to Hana.
“Their bright clothes make them look even taller.” Hana glanced down at her own dark dress and long dark stockings, the uniform worn by all the girls from Tsuchiura. Many of the American girls wore colorful dresses with white stockings to their knees and shiny black shoes with straps across their ankles.
Most had brown or blond hair, but the blue eyes Chiyo saw were not like windows into their owners’ heads as she had wondered about the American dolls. She couldn’t decide whether she felt relief or disappointment.
Before the ceremony began, they were all invited to walk past the tables where dolls slept in their crates. They were only a few of the thousands sent from America. The girls filed past, pausing to admire each doll, some with golden curls, others with brown.
Letters written in English accompanied each doll, with Japanese translations beside them. A photographer moved among the tables, pausing to set some of the dolls upright for better pictures.
Chiyo paused before a beautiful doll with golden curls and a friendly smile. When she took time to read the translated letter, the rest of her group pushed on past. She didn’t care. She would never have a chance like this again.
The doll’s passport said her name was Emily Grace. “You are the prettiest one,” Chiyo whispered to her. The letter was signed by a girl named Lexie and included a haiku.
My doll travels far.
Her arms open wide for hugs.
Will blossoms greet her?
“Yes, they will,” Chiyo promised. “We are celebrating Hinamatsuri. You will see peach orchards filled with blossoms.” A second haiku had been tucked beside the letter. Chiyo decided she liked it best.
Emily Grace glows.
Her warm smile carries friendship.
Sunlight after rain.
Someone shouted, “Look out!”
Bomb! Chiyo thought, as Hoshi’s suggestion flashed through her head. In the same moment, the doll began to topple. Realizing that someone had bumped the display, Chiyo grabbed the falling doll while the box, suitcase, and passport flew to the floor.
As if waking from her long sea voyage, Emily Grace opened her dark-lashed blue eyes. They looked directly into Chiyo’s. In a sweet, clear voice, the doll said, “Mama.”
Okaasan. That was what the word Mama meant. For Chiyo, everything else disappeared, even the white flashes from bulbs in dozens of cameras. In that moment, her heart melted. Love for Emily Grace flooded in, crowding out everything.
“You are the sweetest doll in the world,” Chiyo told her. “Oh, how I hope you will come to my school.”
As she shifted the doll in her arms, Emily Grace said again, “Mama.”
Chiyo held her close, gazing into the doll’s blue eyes with all the longing she felt inside. “Your journey is over,” she whispered. “You are home.”
A camera flashed. She was barely aware of it until Hoshi’s voice cut in. “Sensei, Chiyo is holding a doll! She has forgotten not to touch them!”
Oki-sensei exclaimed, “Miss Tamura! Replace that doll at once!”
Chiyo felt dazed, as if returning from somewhere far away. The teacher’s shock and Hoshi’s secret smile were sharp reminders. “She was falling, Sensei. Someone bumped her box.”
The box was back on the table. Chiyo placed Emily Grace carefully inside.
Oki-sensei made her way past several girls to pull Chiyo from the display. “You will sit in a chair along the side of the room and watch the ceremony. You will not sing with the others.”
Not sing? After all her practice? Chiyo wanted to sing a welcome especially for Emily Grace.
“She fell,” she repeated, bowing. “Someone called a warning. I caught her.” Oki-sensei would not yield. Chiyo realized that the teacher was embarrassed that one of her girls had been seen holding a doll.
Should I have let Emily Grace smash on the floor? She bit back the words. Arguing with the teacher would not help, but she seethed with the unfairness as Hana appeared beside her.
“Who called a warning?” Hana asked.
“A girl. I didn’t know her voice.”
“Was Hoshi nearby?”
“Hoshi!” Chiyo laughed, though she wasn’t amused. “Hoshi never shouts. Besides, she hates the dolls. She wouldn’t have called a warning. She’d have let Emily Grace fall and hope to see her break.”
Hana shook her head. “Don’t you see what happened? Hoshi shouted the warning. She meant for you to catch the doll so she could blame you for touching it. She probably pushed the box herself, to get you in trouble. Let’s go tell Sensei what really happened.”
Chiyo shook her head. “I may be a girl from a hill farm, but even I have learned that Sensei will not confront General Miyamoto’s daughter.”
Trying to bury resentment, she walked past the rows of seated girls and sank onto a low bench at one side. But she wasn’t sorry to have held Emily Grace, even for a little while.
Chiyo sat carefully, with her feet together and her hands clasped in her lap. She meant to do nothing more to upset her teachers. If a report reached Yamada-san that she had broken the rule and touched a doll, she hoped he would also hear that she sat dutifully quiet afterward.
Hundreds of girls filled the audience: Chiyo saw students of all ages. Bulbs flashed as photographers shot picture after picture. Men from newspapers and even from magazines moved through the crowd with notebooks and pencils.<
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After opening speeches, everyone but Chiyo sang first the Japanese and then the American anthems. The music soared through Chiyo, causing her pain as well as pleasure. Her voice could not be among the others, though she had done nothing wrong.
After more speeches, the audience stirred with fresh interest. An American girl wearing a white ruffled dress and bonnet walked onto the stage. She was Miss Betty Ballantine, the American ambassador’s seven-year-old daughter, who spoke in Japanese, bringing greetings from the children of America. Chiyo thought her words were sweet and presented without shyness in front of all these people.
Forty-eight American girls lined up on one side of the stage, holding forty-eight dolls to represent each American state. Across from them, forty-eight girls from Japanese schools stood in respectful ranks. Chiyo felt her heart beat faster, as if she were one of them, though no one from her school was onstage.
As the American girls’ voices rose in the “Doll Song,” Chiyo looked with longing toward Emily Grace, still on the long table with the others.
Then Miss Tokugawa Yukiko, who was descended from the last of the shoguns, walked to the center of the stage. Chiyo leaned forward as if a few inches could help her see better.
Chiyo liked Miss Tokugawa’s dark pleated skirt and matching jacket better than Miss Ballantine’s bright white ruffles. Yukiko’s black hair shining in the light looked far nicer than the ruffles covering Betty’s head. To Chiyo, the bright white seemed to shout, Look at me! Here I am! Yukiko knew that people would see her. She didn’t need to wear white.
Are girls from our two countries so different? Chiyo wondered. Yet they all loved dolls and welcomed friendship. Well, most of them, she corrected herself, remembering Miyamoto Hoshi.
Betty Ballantine presented the doll representing all of America to Miss Tokugawa. How gracefully seven-year-old Yukiko received the doll. I could learn better manners in five minutes with her, Chiyo thought, than in an hour spent watching Hoshi.
Dolls of Hope Page 7
