by Sarah Bird
She didn’t know my name wouldn’t be read. Apparently Father didn’t consider her worthy of sharing even this disgrace. It was probably all her fault that I hadn’t been admitted. Who wanted a girl with a mother who joked publicly about animals mating? It was all so typically Okinawan. I burned with humiliation as my mother shoved her way in next to me. Beneath her work trousers, tied at the ankles, her broad, leathery feet were bare and spattered with stinking night soil. Just as mine now would be for all the rest of my life.
My head still bowed, I heard Father snap the hinoki wood case closed; our emperor could not be subjected to such crass insolence. If Mother had been anyone else it would have been Father’s duty to either beat her bloody for such a show of disrespect or to turn her in to the Japanese authorities. People had been executed for lesser crimes. For a second, the air around me crackled with Father’s rage, and I glanced up, fearing that this time, Anmā had gone too far. But only the muscles bunching and unbunching at Father’s jaw betrayed his fury. That and the blossom of blood as red as a deigo flower that bloomed anew on the white gauze covering his cut ear.
Father gathered himself and read the first name on the list, Ritsuko Amuro. Just as Father started to read the second name, a loud noise boomed out and the ground beneath our feet shuddered.
“Earthquake!” my mother shouted, and the crowd commenced to shriek and mill about like crazed geese. Women pulled their children flat onto the ground to wait for the next concussion. Our house shook in the thundering. In the goat shed, the horned male ran in panic around the post he was tied to, until the rope coiled tightly around his neck. His eyes wide with fear, he bleated out his terror in cries that sounded eerily human.
“Gunboats!” my father yelled, bounding off the veranda with a strangely exuberant step. Ignoring the danger, he set off, nearly running, toward the high black cliffs that towered above the ocean beyond our village.
We followed my father, our manor lord. As we ran, clouds of frightened black crows swirled overhead, cawing and flapping their wings. Father led us to the great field high above the ocean where, long ago, all the thousand lords of Okinawa were said to have once gathered. We crowded right up to the edge of the cliff, looked to the West, and a silence far more complete than the one that honored the emperor’s photo fell upon us.
Where the vast blue of the East China Sea should have been, now there was only the dull gray of painted metal. In every direction, as far as we could see, the water was filled with warships of every size and description, all of them bristling with immense cannons pointed directly at our small island. Farthest away, off in the mist, were the largest, the battleships. They squatted on the horizon like sumo wrestlers waiting to destroy an opponent.
Gazing down at the terrifying armada, my father’s eyes took on a fevered glaze. Excitement that he could barely suppress caused an unfamiliar quaver to oscillate through his words as he announced in an oddly exultant voice, “It has begun. Operation Shō has begun. Okinawa, this pathetic, useless little island, is about to become the scene of our emperor’s greatest glory.” My father’s eyes glittered as he explained, “Soon the Imperial Navy, led by that floating leviathan, the Yamato, the greatest battleship ever constructed, will arrive and obliterate what is left of the United States’ fleet.”
The village elders nodded joyfully at Father’s forceful words. A couple of the oldest among them had wispy white beards so long that their whiskers brushed the black rock at their feet when their heads dipped in eager agreement.
“The trap was set with care and now it is about to be sprung!” my father exulted.
All the men cheered my father’s patriotic words except for Masa Akamine. Akamine-san, our village’s calligraphy master, stood and asked, “Why do you all cheer? Will none of you speak the fears and doubts that you whisper secretly?”
Silence greeted Mr. Akamine’s traitorous words. Our neighbors glanced about nervously. Who knew who might be listening? Who knew who might be receiving secret payments to report treasonous comments to the Imperial Army? Higa-san, a bachelor fisherman who once supplied us with the finest bonito on the island, had disappeared after making a drunken jest about the emperor, never to be seen again. Word reached us that he had been tried as a spy in front of the high command in Naha and beheaded with one swift chop of a sword.
All the men glanced down as the calligraphy master continued. “Why don’t any of you ask the question I know you’re all thinking? Weren’t all the Americans’ ships supposed to have been destroyed at Pearl Harbor?”
There was a moment of silence when those guilty of having had exactly that traitorous thought studied their feet.
“Akamine-san,” my father spoke. “It was only the Pacific Fleet that was destroyed. There is still the Atlantic. And besides, it is clear to anyone who has eyes that most of those ships are decoys, fakes. Why, I can see from here that they’re made of wood and painted to look like real battleships. Their only real purpose is to scare us. Which, I see, they’ve succeeded in doing.”
Hearty laughter broke out then, and even I smiled with relief.
But Masa Akamine was not finished and went on growing increasingly frantic. “Does it not worry any of you that all the mainland Japanese who run our island sent their families home long ago? And now even the few remaining Japanese who are not in the army are leaving. We should be talking about evacuation.”
“Evacuation?” Father mocked him. “Don’t any of you farmers understand? It has been the great Admiral Yamamoto’s plan all along to lure the American navy into this trap. A noose is drawing around them. At this very moment the greatest battleship ever to sail the waters of any ocean under any flag, the Yamato, is cruising at full speed, leading the entire Imperial Navy to encircle what remains of the demon’s navy and crush it in one swift blow even more devastating than the one we dealt them at Pearl Harbor!”
“We have caught the lazy oafs napping again!” yelled Masaoka-sensei, a true Japanese who’d come from the mainland to be the principal of our local elementary school. A drunk and a wife-beater who liked to summon the older girls to massage his temples while he lay with his head in their laps, he had plastered the walls of our classrooms with posters showing us the sweating, apelike enemy, the “GI Joe” who lived to slaughter “Japs” and “Nips.” Masaoka-sensei had instituted a Victory or Death program at the school. Even the kindergartners were required to practice marching at five in the morning. Marching was followed by an hour of drills with our bamboo spears, their tips sharpened and hardened in fire until they were as deadly as steel blades, while Masaoka-sensei exhorted us, “Concentrate your hatred in the tip of your spear.” We ended each day’s drill by swearing allegiance to our emperor and promising to die a thousand glorious deaths in his honor.
“Let us speak no more words of cowardice!” my father said, his voice rising with a thrilling patriotic fervor. “They are unworthy of the brave soldiers who have come here to our poor island to fight and die for us. For Japan! For our father, the emperor!”
“Tennō heika banzai!” the principal bellowed.
They all, even the ancient old men whose trembling legs bowed out like a chicken’s wishbone, joined the cry: “Ten thousand years! Long live the emperor!”
“Right half turn!” my father ordered. “Bow full ninety degrees!” They bowed toward the east, toward mainland Japan and the Imperial Palace.
Assured of the humiliating defeat soon to be dealt to the Americans whose very own Commodore Perry had once shamed us, the villagers grew celebratory. We turned our backs on the battleships and returned to the courtyard of our house, where bottles of millet brandy were produced and passed around. Even Father, who usually disdained the harsh local brew, took several swigs.
All talk of evacuation was abandoned. Besides, hadn’t some already tried sending their loved ones to safety? I glanced at the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Taira. Their slender bodies tilted toward each other as if they would fall down if one weren’t there to prop up the o
ther. A year ago they had evacuated their three young children on the passenger-cargo vessel the Tsushima Maru, and sent them to the safety of the tall mountains and deep valleys of Japan. The 826 children who boarded that ship were excited that they would see maple leaves turn red in the autumn and even, wonder of wonders, witness snow in the winter. On August 22, 1944, at two in the morning, our merciless enemies torpedoed the ship. No one ever spoke of the incident, not even to offer consolation to the heartbroken parents. Instead we all pretended that the children, all 826 of them, were too busy making snowmen to write their parents.
Hatsuko beckoned for me to follow and we went into the number one room of our house, which contained our family altar, where we prayed for good marks in school or asked forgiveness for some childish misdeed. It was dark with all the wooden doors shut. Hatsuko stopped to light a stick of black Okinawan incense and pray that the spirits of our ancestors, all those ghostly names inscribed on the framed wooden tablets, would protect and guide us.
We rushed on to our sleeping area, where Hatsuko knelt on the tatami mat and handed me her comb. Without a word, I began combing her lustrous black hair. Carefully, I pulled a part down the center, divided each half into three equal sections, and braided them into a shiny rope. I wished for the millionth time that I had inherited my father’s straight black, good Japanese hair, instead of the wavy Okinawan hair of our mother’s family.
“Father is right,” she said, as I finished tying the second braid.
“We must all do our duty now,” I finished.
She reached over, grabbed her black leather school satchel, and stuffed in some books, her ink stick, the comb, a bar of soap, and her extra pair of socks.
“Hatsuko, you’re not leaving, are you? Surely your studies will stop now for a few days.”
My sister ceased her flurry of activity and held her hands out to me. “Tami-chan, do these look like the hands of a student?”
I touched her palms. They were rough as a pineapple.
“There have been no studies, no classes, for many months now. All the Princess Lily girls are training to be battlefield nurses. We’ll assist the regular nurses who work in Red Cross hospitals. But, in addition to that, my unit has been assigned to help Lieutenant Nakamura’s unit with …” My sister paused, glanced around, leaned in, and whispered, “… a top-secret project.” Then, in one motion as fluid as a palace dancer, Hatsuko stood. “I have to leave now, but tell me that you will follow.”
“Follow you? To Himeyuri? But we both know that my name isn’t on the list. I wasn’t accepted. I can never be a Princess Lily girl.”
“Can’t you see, Tami-chan? None of that matters anymore; we are at war. Lieutenant Nakamura says that we’re all soldiers now. We must all fight with our tough Japanese spirit. Even he, who was trained as an English translator, is joining the struggle. You are needed in Shuri, Tamiko. You will be welcomed. I promise you that.”
“That may be, but Anmā will never allow me to leave.”
“Do not let our mother stop you. Persevere, Guppy. Use the strength of your Japanese spirit to overcome any obstacle. Come.” She led me to the kitchen. There she spread her furoshiki wrapping cloth on the table and heaped sweet potatoes onto it.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, Little Guppy, the soldiers get so hungry and food is so scarce. I thought I would take my share to them.”
I helped her to pile even more potatoes onto the large piece of fabric. “Take my share as well of these unworthy potatoes to the emperor’s soldiers in Shuri.” She tied the bundle, and set it atop her head.
I walked beside Hatsuko down the dusty path that led to the main road to Shuri. Even balancing a great bundle of sweet potatoes, my big sister was noble and elegant. The lily pin on her breast shone, announcing to all who passed that she was illuminating the world with her purity and her patriotism.
I walked with her down the shaded path that led away from our village. “Why can’t I just come with you right now?” I begged. “Your Lieutenant Nakamura has never seen a worker like me.” Neither one of us took my plea seriously; it would be unthinkable for me to leave without our parents’ blessing.
Hatsuko grinned. “When you do come, the lieutenant will like you; I’m certain of it. Even though he is purebred Japanese, he finds our backward country ways amusing. Wait until you see his sword. Only officers are entitled to wear swords. He always walks with his right arm crossed over his waist so his hand is on the hilt at all times. And he speaks English!”
“You speak English,” I reminded her.
“No, Lieutenant Nakamura speaks the beautiful English of poets. He even writes poetry himself, Tami-chan. Listen to this.” Hatsuko stopped as she recited: “ ‘The bright yellow blossoms of the chrysanthemum bushes behind her looked like bursts of golden light. The moon, it changeth not. This night and yesteryear. But that which ever changeth is man’s fickle heart.’ ”
She sighed a sigh as vast as the Pacific Ocean, and I understood then that Hatsuko loved this lieutenant. I worried that his poem was about man’s fickle, ever-changing heart, but said nothing. “I must go. It is still a long walk back to Shuri.” With that, she turned off our shadowed path and stepped out onto the road.
Before the Imperial Army took over the railroad, then requisitioned all the petrol on the island, there were buses on this road that would always stop to pick up anyone who needed a ride. Now all one saw anymore were military vehicles, trucks filled with soldiers, and they never stopped. Farmers driving carts, rickshaw drivers, herders with flocks of goats, they all had to step lively to get off the road in time, because the trucks wouldn’t even slow down for them. But that day, the prospect of the long walk to Shuri didn’t bother Hatsuko, and as she set off, her step was lively, lightened by the exhilaration of the important work she was doing and by thoughts of her gallant lieutenant. Her dark braids streamed out behind like the reins to a beautiful horse that had slipped away from me. I watched until she disappeared from view, then trudged home.
Back in the village, the men drank millet brandy and argued over whose family had the purest samurai lineage and who had sacrificed the most to help turn back the greedy American and British colonizers. Just as the sun was setting, my mother returned from the fields and entered the house, shaking her head and muttering about “the idiocy of men.”
That evening when marchers from all the nearby villages in the area gathered in the Madadayo village square, my mother went to bed, saying that only people who didn’t work all day had enough energy for such foolishness. My father and I, however, hurried off holding paper lanterns decorated with our emperor’s fiery red rising sun. We sang songs about how we all yearned for the privilege of dying for the emperor, how we could not imagine any greater glory than to give our lives in his service.
A huge bonfire was built in the center of our village. In the light of its dancing flames, the men, now thoroughly drunk, set out to prove which one of them had sacrificed the most for our emperor. Everyone began gathering piles of food, bits of metal, scraps of cloth, anything we had left that we could contribute to the brave Japanese soldiers who were fighting on our behalf.
Sometime during this debate, Father disappeared. When he returned, he was leading Papaya yoked to her cart. He hurried her along as best he could by snapping a short leather whip against her thick hide. Piled high on the cart were the crocks that contained our barley, rice, the fish Mother had dried, as well as the miso pork she’d preserved. Beside them were stacked coops containing most of our flock of chickens. Two goats were tethered to the rails of the cart.
“I will drive this cart myself to Shuri this very night and present our humble offerings to the emperor’s soldiers!” my father announced. But when he tried to climb up onto the cart, his legs turned to rubber, and he slid back down, landing on his bottom on the damp ground. I was shocked; I had never seen my austere, elegant father in such a state.
My mother appeared out of the darkness and yanked him
back to his feet as if he were a sleepy child. “What do you think you’re doing with our fish and miso pork and chickens and goats?”
“They are no longer ours, woman,” he boomed out. “I have requisitioned them in the name of Emperor Hirohito!”
“Oh, shut up with these idiocies about your precious emperor. There is a great and terrible war coming, and your family will starve if you give away our chickens, our food.”
The crowd fell utterly silent at such a treasonous pronouncement.
“Have you forgotten,” my father roared, loud as a Kabuki actor, “that my family is descended from a long line of samurai who died defending their king?”
“And have you forgotten that the kings they died for were Okinawan kings? Not the ruler of our invaders?” I gasped, unable to believe what my mother had said. She reached out to grab the yoke. “Now, stand aside so that I can take our food and animals back home, where—”
My father raised the leather lash and cracked it against my mother’s cheek. My hand leaped up to cover my mouth, but I did not dare move. If I intervened, it would be yet another blow to Father’s honor, and my mother would have to answer for that as well. As blood trickled down Anmā’s cheek, her eyes darkened to a shade beyond black, and a silence descended. It was as ominous as when the deceptive calm of the eye of a typhoon passes through, and I feared the terrible storm that was to come, for not only had Mother disgraced my father, she had insulted the emperor.
The awful silence was broken by my aunt Junko yelling out, “Fiidama!” We followed her trembling finger to a glowing apparition hovering in the sky above the Sacred Grove beyond the edge of the village.
When I glanced back down from the small phosphorescent blur of a fireball wobbling in the sky, all five of my aunts had taken positions beside my mother, their sister. Next to them were their daughters. At the front of the line of my girl cousins was Chiiko with baby Kazumi, Little Mouse, on her back. Like Mother, all five Kokuba sisters were weathered, their skin tough and dark as ox hide from working the hereditary plots of land in their care.
