Halfway home, Papa pulled the car to a stop. Ahead, people were running into the street to join others already there.
“Papa!” Macy pressed her hands to the car’s dash, feeling her heart catch. Were they gathering to stop the car the way the boys had stopped her from leaving school? Had Christopher and his father told others to make Papa destroy the doll?
“Something’s going on,” Papa said, opening the car door.
Macy gasped. “Papa, stay inside. Please!”
But no one was looking at their car or at them. Slowly, she realized that most people were looking away. The group had spread to both sides of the street and down the opposite way. Orange flames flashed upward from their midst. Cheering and whistles broke out. People clapped and shouted. Others raised their fists.
Papa stepped from the car. Too curious to wait behind even though excited fear darted through her, Macy followed.
“What’s this about?” Papa asked Mr. Leefield from the stationery shop.
Mr. Leefield’s eyes glowed as if the flames were reflected in them. “People are burning junk from Japan. There’s a folding screen and a bamboo table.”
Macy saw them now, a graceful leg from the table and a burning frame with a wooden egret standing beside a delicately carved water lily still visible.
Is there something wrong with me? she wondered. Everyone’s happy to see those things burn, but I want to run over and save them. What do a table and folding screen have to do with the war?
Mr. Leefield sounded even more pleased than before. “See those porcelain shards? One couple threw in a complete set of dishes marked ‘Nippon’ on the bottom.”
From farther down the street, Mark from school shouted, “Pop! Do we have anything to throw on the fire?”
His father’s voice came clearly despite the crowd. “No, son. Why would we own Japanese trash?”
Near Macy, a man said, “Miss Markham just added her favorite silk scarf. The thing’s made from the cocoons of filthy Jap silkworms.”
A woman with him said with pride in her voice, “Good for Miss Markham to throw it on the fire. She didn’t hesitate even though she loved wearing that scarf. She always drew compliments with it.”
She did love it, Macy knew, remembering the soft blue silk draped like a kitten around Miss Markham’s shoulders. She had even let Macy wear it for a little while once. The scarf was much lighter and softer than the silk of Miss Tokyo’s kimono. But she didn’t dare even think of Miss Tokyo, for fear someone would hear her thoughts.
Another woman said, “She wouldn’t feel right wearing that scarf again, not with our boys dying in Pearl Harbor and who knows where else.”
Macy looked more closely at the faces around her, recognizing the grocer, Mr. Bradford, who often invited her to have a free cookie from the big bin with the glass lid. There was Mrs. Morris from the variety store, who loved showing her the newest items. And the men who often stood visiting outside the barbershop. All three were here now, talking in loud voices.
She knew these people. They were her friends. But today they scared her.
They’ll remember Miss Tokyo, she warned herself. They’ll wonder if Papa and I are on the wrong side in this war if we don’t get rid of her. But losing Miss Tokyo would be like losing Mama all over again. Macy clutched Papa’s sleeve and pressed her face into the familiar wool.
He looked surprised to find her beside him and turned her away from the crowd. “We’ll take another way home. Get back in the car.”
The other streets were clear. They made good time, but Macy no longer worried about punishment for fighting at school. She was too sick with worry for the doll to spare any for herself.
“Papa,” she said, daring to break into his thoughts, “do you think we should hide Miss Tokyo?”
“Hide her?” Papa’s dark expression made her scoot closer to the door, sorry she’d spoken. “That doll has been among the museum exhibits for years. We’re not going to hide her because some fanatics blame everything Japanese for this war.”
“No, Papa.” Macy was glad. It was awful to imagine Miss Tokyo coffined away in the storeroom. It was even worse to think of angry people hurting her. “I meant maybe we should take her to the storeroom for a while.”
“If we take down the Japanese display, what will people want next?” Papa demanded. “Shall we go through the museum and remove anything German? Or anything Italian? Bloodthirsty rulers in those countries are allied with the Japanese against us. Suppose other countries join the Axis. Do we purge the collection again? Tell me, how would that serve the war effort?”
“It wouldn’t,” Macy said quickly, giving him the answer he expected. But Christopher’s threat echoed through her mind against the ashy memory of burning silk and carved wood. We’ll get rid of it. I’ll get my dad to take some men over there.
As they passed the giant oak trees outside the museum, Macy glanced at Papa, hoping he’d forgotten he was bringing her home from the principal’s office.
She jumped from the car as soon as he parked it outside the curator’s house, where they lived. “I’ll be right back. I just want to talk to Miss Tokyo.”
She didn’t wait for permission, but dashed across the green lawn to the Victorian mansion that housed the museum. She ran down the hall lined with glass cases displaying African and Native American jewelry and, gasping for breath, into the ballroom, where Miss Tokyo waited on her stand.
There was no time to admire the little china tea sets or the rosewood cabinets and silk-shaded lamps from Japan. Macy imagined she could hear the townspeople marching on the museum. She had to hide Miss Tokyo before they got there.
She grabbed a large woven basket from a Native American display, hurrying but trying to be careful as she placed all the Japanese pieces inside. She was forbidden to touch any of the displays, but she closed her mind to the rules. They didn’t apply today. They couldn’t. Not with Miss Markham’s silk scarf blazing in her mind along with all the other Japanese items people were burning.
Miss Tokyo’s dishes and lamps were the easy part. A pole behind the doll held her in place. She would have to be lifted straight up off it.
“You have to hide, Miss Tokyo,” Macy murmured as she climbed onto the stand beside the doll. “Angry people are coming. They want to hurt you.”
The words caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard as she tried to listen for the doll’s answer. She didn’t hear one, no matter how she tried to pretend. “I guess you’d rather talk about something pleasant, like the fishermen with cormorants and how the lamps on their boats light up the dark water while the cormorants dive for fish.”
The memory clung, as if she still leaned against Mama’s chair, looking at pictures in the big book. She imagined leaning closer over the picture of fishermen tying ropes around the birds’ necks. In her memory, Mama’s soft voice explained, “When the birds dive for fish attracted to the lantern light, the ropes keep them from swallowing.”
“I hope they get to eat one when they’re done,” Macy said now, as she had then. “Because life should be fair, and if they don’t get to eat a fish, it isn’t fair.”
It isn’t fair! The words sent tears down her cheeks. They were angry tears, but she didn’t know if the anger was for the cormorants, the danger to Miss Tokyo, or for the sailors dying in Pearl Harbor. Maybe the tears were all because of losing Mama.
She put her hands on each side of the doll, trying to think about Miss Tokyo . . . only Miss Tokyo. Push her up carefully, she warned herself. Don’t let her fall.
From the doorway, Papa asked in a sharp voice, “What are you doing?”
Macy sank to her knees on the stand, her arms still around the doll. A sob broke through and her voice got higher than before. “People are coming to get her. We have to hide her!”
“That’s plain foolishness. No one’s coming here. Put everything back the way you found it. Now!”
“She’s right,” Nick said, stepping around Papa as Macy began settin
g Miss Tokyo’s lamps and things beside her again. “Everyone’s hopping mad. In town, they’re saying anything Japanese should be dumped. Or worse. I watched Miss Markham from the bakery burn a perfectly good scarf because it was made of Japanese silk. Other stuff was burning, too. Everybody cheered.”
“We were there,” Macy said, “coming from school.”
“You were? I was toward town with Hap.”
“That doll isn’t a foolish bit of silk woven to please a woman,” Papa cut in. “She’s a museum artifact to help educate future generations. She stays where she is.”
“If they burn her,” Nick pointed out, “she won’t be here for future generations.”
Macy sucked in a sharp breath. Nick’s warning painted her memory with flames blazing upward from things people had loved. Until now.
“Letting a mob win is like paying a blackmailer,” Papa said. “It never stops. As curator of this museum, I decide what is or is not displayed. The doll stays. Help your sister restore the display.”
Papa spun on his heel and walked back to the entry, with its information desk.
“What can we do?” Macy asked Nick. “Papa won’t listen. He never listens to me. He never even calls me by my name.”
“That’s because it was Mama’s middle name, after her grandpa. Pop used to tease her by calling her both names, Mary Macy. And you look more like her every day.” As Nick glanced around, he pushed one hand through his hair as if that might help him think.
Nick had told her before that she looked like Mama. Macy didn’t think it was true. Her brown hair didn’t have the golden glints that had brought sunshine into Mama’s, not as many, anyway. But she did have the same green eyes and the same sort of nose, and she thought her smile was a lot like Mama’s.
The front door slammed, startling her so that she nearly fell from the stand. Nick caught her and lowered her to the floor. Men’s raised voices came from the entry. Angry voices. Macy looked wide-eyed at Nick. “They’re here! What will we do?”
There wasn’t time to do anything. The men were closer, their voices familiar. As the first man came into the room, Macy stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Walters. How is your garden? Are your winter vegetables doing well?”
It might have sounded like a silly thing to say when the men were here to take the doll, but Mr. Walters looked startled. She thought he might be remembering the times he had cut a dahlia for her when she paused by his fence to admire his flowers.
“It’ll do,” he muttered. “Cabbages look good.”
A second man came in, followed by a third — Mr. Bradford, who always found time to visit when Macy stopped by his grocery store. She was disappointed to see him here. Papa followed the men, arguing with them all. They ignored him. He might as well have been telling the walls about the value of museum displays for future visitors.
Mr. Collier, who worked for the newspaper, cast a searching glance around the room, ending with Macy. “Don’t look so worried, young lady. We’re just here to reason with your father.”
Mr. Bradford added, “That big doll belongs in storage.”
“I see no reason for that,” Papa said, moving to stand beside Miss Tokyo.
“We’ve heard complaints,” Mr. Bradford said. “People want the display taken down.”
“The whole thing stands for the enemy,” Mr. Walters said. “Our children shouldn’t have to look at Jap junk.”
Macy looked from one to the other, fearing what they would say next, fearing what they might do. They weren’t listening to Papa. She thought they had come to the museum determined not to listen.
Mr. Collier spoke in a reasoning tone. “Putting the doll in storage for a while is part of the job of taking care of the exhibits entrusted to you. If it stays, kids are likely to go at that doll with scissors or knives.”
“Or paint,” Mr. Bradford said.
Papa’s mouth thinned. “I have more faith in our children’s respect for the museum than you gentlemen apparently do.”
All three men got redder, as if he had insulted them. Maybe he had. The deepening color in their faces reminded Macy of Christopher when he realized he was complaining of being shoved by a girl.
Christopher was the one upset by Miss Tokyo. He’d complained and sent these men here. She was sure of it. She would never forgive him.
Nick shifted, and she wondered if he meant to stand beside Papa. Would there be a fight? She knotted her hands into fists, determined to help if she could. She just wished Christopher were here, too, so he could see that she and Nick and Papa weren’t going to let anyone push them around.
From the doorway, Nick’s friend Hap Davis said, “Hey, fellas, don’t go picking on my doll. Miss Tokyo and I go back a long way.”
He winked at Macy, and she couldn’t help smiling. Hap’s real name was Harold, but people had called him Happy his whole life. Nick said that was because Hap had the kind of smile that made you want to smile back. He was already eighteen, one of her favorite people and Nick’s best friend.
Macy watched the anger melt from the group of men. Even Papa lost his tight look and let his shoulders relax.
Still, Mr. Collier was having trouble bringing his thoughts around. “You and a doll?” he asked, sounding incredulous.
Hap grinned at Nick. “You’d have jeered me like the rest of the first-grade class if you’d been here then. The doll was still in one of the back rooms when Miss Lewellyn took our class through. They couldn’t drag me away from Miss Tokyo.”
“A doll.” Mr. Collier sounded even more disbelieving.
“The doll and all her little chests and lamps and stuff.” Hap crossed the room to pick up a tiny silk-shaded lamp on a glowing rosewood base. “Everyone said dolls were for girls, but her things fascinated me. They still do.”
He raised the lamp to eye level. “Look at this. The shade is pure silk, hand-painted with tiny lotus blossoms. This doll teaches us a lot about her country’s culture.”
Mr. Bradford shook his head. “All we need to know about that doll is that her country killed our boys at Pearl Harbor.”
A serious look came over Hap’s face. He set down the lamp and put one hand lightly on Miss Tokyo’s head, as if to protect her. “My girl here had nothing to do with that. I fully doubt the artist who created her had anything to do with the bombing, either.”
He looked at Macy before adding, “Any more than our Macy will have anything to do with the bombs and bullets we’re about to send their way.”
“That’s right,” Nick said. “There are a lot of patriotic fellows down at the Navy Enlistment Center. I don’t believe even one of them blames this doll for the war.”
Hap walked over to put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, here you have the newest member of Uncle Sam’s navy. And I’m proud to say that I now represent the United States Marines.”
For a moment, the entire room went silent. Then Macy’s shocked voice rang out. “You joined up? Both of you?”
It couldn’t be true. Could it? Hap was just saying that to take their minds away from the doll. Wasn’t he? The awful image of ships sinking and men in burning water flashed through her mind.
“Aren’t you a little young?” Mr. Collier asked Nick.
“Pop signed the paper allowing me to enlist. Hap and I both leave for training at the end of the week.”
Everyone looked at Papa. Macy saw pride in his face and knew that Nick was telling the truth. He was a sailor now. He was leaving. He was like all the boys at school, and some of the girls. He wanted to fight in the war.
She felt proud of him and of Hap and scared to her toes for them both.
“Well, then,” Mr. Walters said loudly, “congratulations, both of you. If I were your age, I’d be signing up, too, and proud to do it.”
The other men quickly added congratulations of their own. “It’s a fine, patriotic thing you’re doing,” Mr. Collier said. Mr. Bradford added, “The town can be proud of you two.”
They all began talking
about the military and why Nick had chosen the navy and Hap the marines and where they hoped to serve. Inside Macy, the growing coldness vanished. Instead, she felt warmth swell through her chest. She pressed her fingers to a smile on her lips. When Hap came in, everything had changed.
She moved closer to be nearer to the happiness that always seemed to be part of him. “I’m glad you came by,” she told him, and added before she could hear how dumb it sounded, “When I grow up, I think I’ll marry you.”
He could have laughed, but he didn’t. He looked at her with the same approval he’d had for Miss Tokyo. “Great! I’ll wait for you.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Mr. Collier said. “You two boys will fall in love with girls overseas and likely come home with war brides.”
Macy was already upset with Mr. Collier. Now she didn’t like him at all.
When Nick came in for breakfast on Saturday, the bright anticipation on his face looked like more than eagerness to head for basic training. It looked like a secret he could hardly hold back. Excitement rippled through Macy. Maybe he had decided not to catch the train this morning.
She didn’t dare ask in case she was wrong, so she just said, “You look like you’re expecting fancy waffles, but Miss Rasmussen’s making pancakes.”
“With her homemade blackberry jam? That’s just what I wanted.” Nick sat on his usual chair around the corner of the table from Macy. He beamed at the part-time housekeeper and cook, then back at Macy. “I have something for you, Sis. I was going to leave it with Pop for your Christmas, but I was afraid you’d notice it was missing and get upset. Besides, I wanted to be here when you opened it.”
She’d been right to be excited. “What? Miss what?”
He set a small package beside her plate, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a red ribbon. “Merry early Christmas!”
“For me?!” She looked from the package to Papa. “May I open it now?”
Dolls of War Page 3
