The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (17 page)

“Music is in her blood,” his
ojiichan
answered. “Perhaps she couldn’t resist any longer.”

They stood perfectly still, letting the low moan of notes move through their bodies with an almost cleansing sweep. To Hiroshi, the music felt like a moment of normalcy, a sudden light in his
ojiichans
darkness, another chance for his grandfather to feel the life that surrounded him.

The next night after sunset, Mariko came out to the courtyard and began playing again, her notes soaring furiously into the night just after blackout. Hiroshi’s
obaachan
hurried next door and pleaded with the Yoshidas to stop her before the
kempeitai
came to their door and ordered her to stop. But after a moment’s quiet, Mariko began playing again. Hiroshi’s grandmother returned, shaking her head sorrowfully. Mariko’s fiancé had been killed in the Philippine Islands and she was inconsolable. Her tears stopped only when she played.

Hiroshi remembered the dog down the street that the military police had ordered killed because of his frenzied barking just before each air raid. They called it a disruption of army communications, anything that might interfere with information concerning the enemy’s approach. Mariko’s cello music directly disobeyed blackout rules, though Hiroshi couldn’t understand how her music was anything but soothing in these difficult times. He knew her cello would be confiscated, and, worse, she might be taken in and questioned. Still, Hiroshi understood her grief and admired her courage as he watched her play, falling a little in love with her all over again.

On the third night of her playing, Hiroshi took a piece of white origami paper and folded it into a crane, just as she had shown him as a little boy. “It’s the symbol of luck and happiness,” she’d told him. This time he inserted a stone inside to give it weight. When Mariko sat down and began to play, he threw the crane over the bamboo thicket and into her courtyard, where the small white shape landed beside her right foot. She never paused to look up, but played on, lost
in the music. But Hiroshi knew the crane was there, right next to her, a small reminder of happiness.

Minutes later, Mariko’s mother’s screams brought them rushing from their houses to the Yoshidas’ front gate. Hiroshi pushed his way to the front of the small crowd, only to be stopped by a military policeman who held out his rifle, its bayonet pointed at his chest.

“No further,” he directed.

Hiroshi stopped, and looked over the shoulder of the policeman and into the courtyard.

“Stop!” he heard an angry voice yell. “Stop now or you’ll suffer the consequences!”

Mariko sat on the wooden stool, dressed in a white mourning kimono, her wide sleeves moving back and forth like wings, the origami crane still lying on the ground by her stool. Hiroshi recognized the sad Bach cello suite she played. As the music filled the air, she closed her eyes again; a thin smile crossed her lips. She was oblivious to the policeman ordering her to stop.

“I said, stop right now!” the policeman ordered again. He glanced toward the small crowd, and grew more furious at Mariko, who dared to disobey his orders in front of others. Then, with a motion so swift Hiroshi didn’t see it coming, he pulled out his pistol and fired a shot into the air. The pungent smell of gunpowder rose into the night.

The crowd scattered. Hiroshi saw his
obaachan
lead his
ojiichan
away but Hiroshi remained. If only he could get to Mariko, he would convince her to stop. He heard the frantic pleading of her parents,
“Dozo
, Mari-chan, please stop,” mixed with the angry police commands.

Hiroshi rushed forward, pushing past the guard, who pushed back, a look of surprise on his face. In the next moment, Hiroshi felt a quick sting as the sharp tip of the guard’s bayonet slashed his forehead. He stepped back and swung a fist at the guard but the rifle butt slammed into his ribs. Doubled over in pain, Hiroshi forced himself to look up. A gush of warm blood blurred his vision and covered his right cheek. Just then, the other policeman lowered his pistol and fired again, this time not into the air, but straight at Mariko’s cello.

Days later, despite his throbbing wound, now closed with thirteen stitches, despite his ribs bruised purplish-green, Hiroshi remembered this: a split second after the gun was fired Mariko opened her eyes in surprise, tipped her head, and glanced downward. Did she see the white crane beside her foot? Hiroshi liked to think so. No, he knew so. But there followed a moment in which everything seemed to freeze, all except the final exquisite note from her cello that hung in the air as she fell to the ground.

The week after Mariko’s death, the days turned hotter, and the humidity suffocating. For Fumiko Wada, the war had taken a horrific turn—the murder of Mariko and the wounds Hiroshi suffered made it personal. Survival had taken on a new face—it was no longer about foraging for food or losing her wedding ring or honoring her emperor and country. It was about her family, and had nothing to do with the war fought in distant places. This war took place right in Yanaka. The anger and despair she felt was oppressive like the heat, pressing down on her like a great weight.

She ran up and down to Hiroshi’s room, making sure he was comfortable, snapping at Kenji, who sat by his side from the moment he returned from school until he left again the next morning. “Let your
oniisan
sleep,” she told him. But he shook his head and remained as silent as his brother. It was all Fumiko could do not to scream.

So when friends and neighbors came to visit, bringing
omiyage
, small gifts, it was unexpected. So many traditions had been abandoned since the Pacific War. They came to see Hiroshi, to mourn Mariko’s death and honor her grandson’s courage. Each
omiyage
meant so much more because there was so little to give. Before the war their gifts would have been a box of
mochi
filled with red bean, a tin of dried seaweed, green tea, a box of chocolates, or her favorite butter cookies, each beautifully wrapped in
noshi
paper and
mizuhiki
string. Now, as Fumiko bowed low and received each gift, it was accompanied by an embarrassed glance or an apologetic word for its modest presentation. Fumiko accepted each
omiyage
, touched beyond words.

Later, she carefully untied each
furoshiki
to see the cloth wrappings made from material scraps cut out of kimonos, tablecloths, even a cotton
yukata
robe she remembered seeing Mori-san wearing. And in each, Fumiko found small tokens of her neighbors’ lives, three polished stones, a conch shell, a pair of lacquer chopsticks, and a paperweight with the word “Sweden” carved in its wood base. But it was Ayako’s gift, the packet of ginseng tea, that moved her to tears.

“To give Hiroshi strength,” Ayako said, stepping into the
genkan
, and handing her the folded paper packet. Only her old friend had dispensed with the formalities of gift giving and pulled the packet from the folds of her kimono sleeve.

Fumiko bowed to her old friend. “It’s as if the world has gone mad,” she said, upon rising. “I just thank the gods Hiro-chan’s wounds will heal.”

Ayako agreed. “Hiroshi is a strong boy.” Then she raised her voice angrily. “You would think they’d use their strength to fight this war rather than kill the innocent!”

Fumiko quickly ushered Ayako inside and slid the door closed. With Okata prowling around the neighborhood, she remained extra careful.

“Mikiko and I must close the bakery,” Ayako said, lowering her voice. “The
kempeitai
have confiscated the rest of our equipment.”

“Iie
, no!” Fumiko shook her head and reached out for her friend’s arm. “What will you do?”

“We’ll go to Hiroshima and wait out the war. Mikiko’s husband has family there and they would love to see Juzo. And when this is all over, we’ll return to Yanaka and reopen the bakery.”

Fumiko could hardly speak. Along with everything else, Ayako’s leaving had knocked the wind out of her. “When?” she whispered.

“The end of next week.” She smiled at Fumiko. “Don’t look so sad. It will only be for a short time.”

Ayako, Ayako is leaving! It can’t be true!
Fumiko thought, her dearest
friend moving so far away. She knew there were words that needed to be said, as she watched Ayako talk of the move and what they would leave behind, but she could only nod in agreement.

While Hiroshi’s wounds healed, Kenji stayed by his brother’s side. He wanted to protect him though he didn’t know how. Even when Hiroshi was asleep or lay staring at the ceiling, ignoring him, Kenji stayed. He was afraid that his brother would die, leaving him an orphan a second time. He tried not to think of the parents he’d never known, because losing Hiroshi wouldn’t be the same. His mother and father were ghosts to him, while Hiroshi was flesh and blood.

When he had told Yoshiwara-sensei that he wouldn’t be returning to the mask shop until his brother was well again, Yoshiwara handed him a tin of biscuits for Hiroshi. “With hopes that your
oniisan
gets better soon,” he said. Speechless, Kenji bowed low to his sensei.

Hiroshi hadn’t spoken since that terrible night. He lay on his futon, pale and thin, his head bandaged, and his thoughts far away from Kenji’s small talk. “Mako and Takeo would like to visit,” Kenji droned on. “And Futabayama won another match last night.” Hiroshi turned away from him. Kenji couldn’t help but think that they’d somehow changed places; he had always been the serious, introverted one.

And while his grandparents worried, they decided to leave Hiroshi alone. “Give him time,” his
ojiichan
advised. “He’ll talk again when he’s ready.”

But Kenji wanted his strong, gregarious brother back. He heard the doctor tell his
obaachan
that Hiroshi would always have a scar on his forehead. At first, the stitches looked like small angry knots, the wound red and raw when his
obaachan
changed the bandage. But Kenji secretly admired the scar, the curve that abruptly ended at his brother’s temple. He couldn’t stop staring at it. It was a mark of Hiroshi’s courage, a scar that Kenji could only hope for.

Initially, his brother’s silence bothered Kenji, until he became used
to the new sound of his own voice. The change had taken place the year before, when his voice suddenly fell an octave. Each day after school, Kenji sat with Hiroshi, reading to him from Japanese folktales, sumo magazines, even occasional descriptions from
The Book of Masks
, whether he listened or not. Kenji hoped that if nothing else, he might slowly draw his brother’s attention back as his
obaachan
always did with her stories. By the end of the week, as he read, Hiroshi turned and winced, gave a low moan. Kenji dropped the book and looked anxiously at his brother to see if there was anything he could do. But Hiroshi had already turned away and lay quiet again.

“Let me tell you another story.” Kenji cleared his throat. And before Hiroshi could make a move or protest, he was repeating the story of
Hagoromo
, or
The Robe of Feathers
, the Noh play he had seen last year with Yoshiwara-sensei.