The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (16 page)

At fifteen, Hiroshi was too young to fight for his country, but too old to be considered a child. He and his friends were all members of the Great Japan Youth Association, mobilized through schools to help in any way. Two days a week, upper-grade classes were suspended so that students could help dig slit trenches along the roadway. When the air-raid sirens sounded, students jumped into the nearest trench to squat or lie facedown with their hands or school-bags over their heads. Hiroshi knew the trenches were important protection, but they still looked like open graves to him, waist-deep furrows long enough to hold a dozen or more people.

Several of his classmates had already left to work in factories, but he would have to wait until the schools were completely closed. The most important thing to his grandparents was his and Kenji’s education, even if it meant days of digging trenches, practicing air-raid
drills, and writing slogans. As long as the schools were still open, his grandparents expected him to attend.

As Hiroshi dug, he carved out the sides and packed the mud together with the back of his shovel. The sharp smell of wet earth brought back childhood memories of going down to the Sumida River with his
ojiichan
when he and Kenji were little. As they stood on the wooden bridge, looking down at the flowing water, his
ojiichan
told him of growing up in Hakodate. “As a boy, I swam every day during the summer months. I couldn’t get enough of the water. I’ll never forget your …” And then his voice trailed off and Hiroshi wondered if he was thinking of his daughter. He noted his grandfather always paused between words and his voice softened when he spoke of her. But his
ojiichan
never avoided speaking of his mother, and he continued, “I was too busy working when your
okasan
was young, I never taught her to be comfortable in the water, not like with you boys.”

“Do you think she suffered?” Hiroshi had once asked. He was ten years old and couldn’t help wondering what it must have felt like surrendering to the dark, cold water, giving in after the struggle.

His
ojiichan
watched the serene waters below. “I believe that what she must have suffered most was the thought of leaving you and Kenji.”

A puddle of muddy water formed at the bottom of the trench as Hiroshi dug, and deepened as water streamed down the sides of the embankment. Watching the shallow pool grow, he realized that someone lying facedown in it could drown, and what an irony that would be.

“Keep digging!” a voice shouted down at him. Hiroshi looked up to see a thin, narrow-eyed
kempeitai
officer who didn’t look much older than he was.

“Hai,”
he shouted back, catching quick glances from Mako and Takeo as they worked.

Hiroshi gripped his shovel and dug faster and deeper. Then just as the officer turned away, he tossed a shovelful of mud up on the ground, close enough to splatter across the officer’s boots and pant legs.

“You stupid bastard,” the officer shouted. “Look what you’ve done!”

“Sumimasen.”
Hiroshi stood straight and apologized. He bowed slightly, suppressing a smile.

“I’ll teach you …,” the officer began.

From the corner of his eye, Hiroshi saw the policeman’s muddy boot rising toward his head. As he dodged sideways, a spray of mud slapped against his cheek. Kicking air, the officer lost his footing and slipped backward onto the muddy ground, amid laughter from the boys. By the time he regained his footing, Hiroshi had scrambled up from the trench, slick with mud, and stood above him, tall and broad. They stared at each other, neither moving, until the officer leaned forward and muttered, “This isn’t over.” Mud covered the length of his back as he walked away.

“What did he say to you?” Takeo asked.

Hiroshi shrugged and jumped back down into the trench with a splash, only to realize that the water had risen a good three inches above his ankles.

All through May as the skies cleared, dry, warm days settled in. Hiroshi and his family each had their own diversions—his
obaachan
still managed to put food on the table each night, while he and Kenji went to school, did volunteer work, and looked to a future of sumo and Noh masks. In their hurry to cover the void created by the war, his
ojiichan
had been left behind. Hiroshi couldn’t say what it was, but he noticed a change in his grandfather, how his restlessness and
despair had suddenly given way to calm. He began to watch his
ojiichan’s
movements, his seeing without seeing, and he knew that his grandfather had gone completely blind.

One balmy May evening as they climbed the narrow stairway to the tower, Hiroshi’s suspicions were confirmed by the careful way his
ojiichan
made his way up the stairs, and his complete tranquility in doing so. Usually, his
ojiichan
strained to catch any flicker of light, his face tense with concentration. Now, he looked straight ahead, as if he had accepted the fight was over.

“Are you all right?” Hiroshi asked as they stood gazing out at the darkening sky.

“Never better.”

Hiroshi watched his
ojiichan
closely. “Does all the darkness frighten you?”

His grandfather shook his head. “What is there to be frightened of? If all the glorious victories we hear about continue, we should have lights blazing and food on our table again by spring of next year.”

Hiroshi swallowed. “Not the war. Your darkness.”

His
ojiichan
turned toward him and smiled. “Since I’ve stopped resisting the inevitable, all is well.” He pulled out his pipe, used his thumb to pat down the pinch of tobacco he allowed himself, and never once fumbled. “You know, Hiro-chan, things can be just as frightening in the daylight.”

Hiroshi watched in silence, as the small spark of his match flared and settled.

“At least I’ll never have to worry about the blackouts,” his
ojiichan
joked.

Hiroshi’s laugh strangled in his throat. It was like a candle flickering to its end, his
ojiichan
had once explained to him, the room darkening slowly. The night voices hummed below them like persistent mosquitoes. He wanted to swat them all away.

“It’s going to be all right, Hiro-chan,” his grandfather said softly, laying his arm across his shoulder. “Now tell me, what do you see?”

Hiroshi opened his eyes wide and stared hard until they watered. “Shadows,” he answered.

“Behind the shadows, do you see that wooden stool in Yoshida-san’s courtyard to your right?” his
ojiichan
asked, pointing in the exact direction.

Hiroshi gazed down to their neighbor’s courtyard and realized his grandfather had memorized it all—each beauty and blemish etched into his mind.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Even when it’s gone, thrown out, or used for firewood, I’ll still see it there. I’ll always see Mariko-san sitting on that stool practicing her cello. Do you remember when her music filled the air every night? We didn’t realize how lucky we were then,” his
ojiichan
said wistfully.

Yes, Mariko-san’s music, Hiroshi thought. He heard again those clear, vibrant notes, a low, steady lament, or quick hops of happiness over the strings of her cello that used to fill their neighborhood with life. Hiroshi wished for them again.

The Yoshidas had been his grandparents’ neighbors since before he and Kenji had come to live with them. Mariko was five years older than Hiroshi, not beautiful, but always pleasant and sweet. When he and Kenji were little boys, she babysat them on the afternoons his
obaachan
went to help Ayako-san at the bakery when her daughter was expecting a child. Almost three years ago, just after his thirteenth birthday, Hiroshi developed a crush on Mariko. He peered every day through an opening in the bamboo thicket as she returned home from the conservatory, her arms wrapped around her cello the way he wished they were wrapped around him.

She caught him once. “Hiroshi, is that you?” she asked, stopping and peering into the thick bamboo that separated their houses.

He hesitated a moment, just a moment, watching the question remain on her thin lips. “Hai, yes, it’s me,” he answered, parting the bamboo curtain.

“What are you doing there?”

Again, he hesitated, his gaze on her smooth white hands that cradled the cello.

“Are you playing?” she asked. “Is this a game you’re playing?”

He remembered feeling hurt that she thought him a child playing. He had answered,
“Hai,”
though he wanted to say, “I was waiting for you. For a glimpse of you.”

For as long as Hiroshi could remember, Mariko had played the cello. Accepted into the conservatory at fifteen, she often practiced in her family’s courtyard. He watched her with unabashed joy. It didn’t matter that she was older and had grown-up plans. One day she would see that he had grown up, too, and she would love him as much as she loved her music.

Now, Hiroshi brushed aside the thought. His youthful passion for her had lasted one summer. Still, he could never look her straight in the eyes afterward. Just last week Hiroshi saw Mariko on the road, where she stood waiting for another stitch on her fiancé’s
sen’ninbari
belt. “So that he will remain safe from the enemy’s bullets,” he heard her tell a passing woman. And for the hundredth time, Hiroshi realized that the war had ended more than just his dream of becoming a
rikishi
.

Two evenings later, as Hiroshi stood with his
ojiichan
up in the tower again, they were taken by surprise when the strains of cello music wafted up through the night’s darkness and enveloped them, at first tentative, then gradually growing stronger, louder.

“Mariko,” his
ojiichan
whispered joyfully, closing his eyes to listen. “Bach’s First Cello Suite.”

Hiroshi looked down to Yoshida-san’s yard but could only make out the shadow of Mariko sitting on the stool, the ghostly white of her kimono sleeve moving back and forth. Did she hear them speaking of her? Why was she playing now, just before blackout, and outside, in full view of the neighbors? Okata would surely notify the
kempeitai
.

“Why now?” Hiroshi asked.